


A Lady of Winterfell

by wandering_scavenger



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, Family, Mix of Jane Austen and Jane Eyre, Scandal, Sexual Content, Slow Burn, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-28
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:54:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 33,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998548
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wandering_scavenger/pseuds/wandering_scavenger
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Regency AU</p><p>Young, beautiful, and gifted with a fortune enough to last two lifetimes, Sansa Stark is a perfect lady in the eyes of the ton.<br/>Until tragedy strikes and leaves the family in near ruin.<br/>Determined to pick up the pieces of what once was, she only has guile and sheer will to aid her in keeping her home together. But when her once-half-brother Jon returns to the estate with dangerous information, Sansa can’t decide whether or not she is ready to be thrust back into a past that she was still trying to forget.<br/>It wasn’t enough to be a lady of the ton.<br/>It was time for her to be a Lady of Winterfell.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

 

  _Sansa_

 

“Goodbye mama, _do_ write to me once you reach aunt Lysa’s estate.” she said carefully, drawing out her sentence with every word, “I am sure you will have a wonderful time, so don’t worry about me or the children; we’ll just be here looking forward to your return.” 

The red-haired girl’s kind assurance was met with a twitch of the Marchioness’ pale lips, a gesture that the young woman had grown all too familiar with for the past two weeks. There was no smile—never—it was a look that often had her feeling hollow inside whenever it appeared. The Marchioness was almost as cold as the breeze that the upcoming winter blew in their direction, but Sansa could not hold it against her mother for being as glacial as she had become. Lady Winterfell had lost what little spirit was left within her, perhaps her daughter would be the same given everything that had happened to their family thus far.

But she still had her youth, being barely past the age of eight-and-ten. That youth would be enough for Sansa to keep hope, at least that was what Catelyn Winterfell believed. The woman caressed her eldest daughter’s rosy cheeks, memorising the face that resembled hers in nearly every way, from the curve of her cheekbones to the bow shape of her lips.

Arya followed after, dark brows pressed together to twist her face into a defiant scowl. The loathing was there, it was as if the younger of her two daughters had fully intended to fluster her by leaving the laces of her dress in a tangled abomination. Where the long faced child expected frustration she received indifference, though she gave no indication that she was injured by the lack of attention on her mother’s part. The Dowager Marchioness of Winterfell pat the young girl’s cheek and moved to attend to her two young er boys, unaware of the redness that made its way to Arya’s grey eyes. It had been an honourable attempt on her sister’s part, however Sansa had no desire to encourage the girl to call on their mother’s attention in such a manner. She cast a look of pity in her way instead, intending to speak to her younger sibling once they returned to their respective bedrooms. Their mother would be this way for quite some time, it was best to accept her despondence and gently chide her out of it rather than force her to better herself.

Over the quiet sobs of Bran and little Rickon’s increasing tantrum, Sansa made her way to her mother’s side and looped her arm through the trembling woman’s own, taking note of the strained expression that wrinkled her weary face. 

“Come now mama.” Sansa whispered, leading her mother to the coachmen who meant to accompany their mistress. 

To her eldest daughter’s horror, Catelyn’s silence began to recede, her disposition taking on a cross between Bran’s lachrymose resignation and Rickon’s expectable hysteria. A soft whimper escaped from the woman’s lips, urging Sansa to hasten her pace. Quick to notice their Lady’s need for assistance, the two men relieved the young woman of her mother to direct the widow to her lavish coach. It began to move as soon as the coachmen had settled themselves atop their seats, the high pitched whinnies of the horses alerting them of Catelyn Winterfell’s departure. Sansa chewed on her lower lip to keep her mouth from quivering and hoped that her sadness wasn’t nearly as apparent as her younger siblings’. It wouldn’t do to cry, it had been her idea after all to send away the matriarch of the family.

 _When you have made a difficult decision, it is of utmost importance to show those who question your abilities that you will stand by your choice._ A voice whispered. It was a familiar one—one she wished she wouldn’t hear in her head as often as she did, one she wished she wouldn’t hear at all.

 _But they don’t know—they can’t._ She replied, sending the words into the void of silence in her head.

“Mama!” Rickon shrieked; he jumped out of Old Nan’s grasp to chase after the moving vehicle. 

His scream pulled Sansa from her thoughts, giving her enough time to gather the child into her arms and hold him tightly to her body to keep him from running any further. She winced at the feel of his hands grabbing fistfuls of her hair, rubbing the boy’s shaking back as he sobbed into the crook of her neck; it had been a good thing that she wasn’t wearing her bonnet today. Arya snarled, unafraid to make it known to her older sister that she wouldn’t be in the mood to converse with anyone for the rest of the day. With her arms still wrapped around Rickon, Sansa watched as the young girl grabbed the skirts of her dress and ran from Old Nan’s chastising—presumably to the stables, as she always did when she was furious. 

Sansa turned her attention back to Rickon, hushing him with gentle words and a soft caress to his tear-stained cheeks; it was something she had learned from their mother. Having noticed this, Bran observed his eldest sister with a strange look in his bright eyes, perhaps thinking about their mother. It didn’t take long to pry the youngest Stark from her person; he clung to Old Nan like a chimp would a tree, relentless in his insistence to mourn their mother’s departure when their governess decided to take him to the nursery. Sansa sighed, casting a hopeful smile in her crippled brother’s way. Bran returned the smile with his own knowing one, allowing her to take his hand and lead him back into their home. The silence between them stretched on, it was a comfortable sort, with only the sound of their feet against the gravel pavement and the drag of his cane.

“When do you think Robb will return?”

It was not an unreasonable question for him to ask, although she wished that he had forsaken the idea of asking her altogether, because nothing is more troublesome than having to address a question that one doesn’t know the answer to.

“I suppose when he means to.” replied Sansa thoughtfully.

Bran’s face suddenly resembled that of his pet wolf, Summer, whenever he attempted to teach her tricks. Befuddled, to say the least. He expected that she would be in contact with their older brother, but he was wrong to expect. People tend to disappoint more often than not. It mattered little if you were a member of the _ton_ or a mere servant. Unlike their mother, Robb wasn’t urged to leave Yorkshire for a vacation; he said he was off to do his duty as the Marquis of Winterfell. He left, and they hadn’t any idea as to when he would return. 

He could make whatever claims he wished to make, but she was no simpleton. The Lady Sansa Stark was more than aware of the fact that eloping with a common wench was not a part of a Marquis’ duty to his county. Nonetheless, she would handle the march while her brother was off on his secret bridal tour with his new wife. The blue-eyed young woman looked forward to frightening him with her ever-so polite behaviour when he returned. Perhaps he would realise that a letter containing no more than two sentences wouldn’t suffice to explain as to why he was eloping and where he would be travelling after, much less if it was a letter to his beloved mother.

Sansa held her tongue, for she knew that opening her mouth would only encourage her to speak ill of their older brother. Bran took her silence as a sign of her uncertainty. He was possibly the brother that knew her best, at least, most recently. It was he as well that saw Robb last before their brother ventured out of the county; a part of him may have found it difficult to blame her for her ignorance when it came to Robb, as their brother—though an honourable man—was also unpredictable. 

The servants opened the entrance to the foyer for them, mindful of the sullen mood that the Stark children had been in, given that the youngest was a walking hazard. Ever the gentleman, Bran helped his eldest sister to her chair and perched himself by the window seat of her private parlour, setting his cane to his side to keep his hands full with his books of Voltaire and Newton instead. Only he truly made the time to accompany her in the confines of her sanctuary, she supposed it was because they are both creatures that appreciate silence. Sansa returned to her embroidery, intent on distracting herself with her cross-stitches rather than worrying about Robb or their mother.

 _They can’t know_.

 

...

 

The letter arrived when she was preparing herself for bed, her hair a tangle of wet, red waves that clung to the thin material of her nightgown. 

Sansa shivered as she tied her wrapper around her body, taking note that her comforters would not be enough to keep her warm a few weeks from now, when the trees are finally bare and the ground covered in a sheet of white. Tomorrow she would ask the servants to start delivering bed warmers to each of her siblings’ rooms.

It was a young girl who presented herself to the lady of the house in the middle of the night, she was a small thing with wide eyes and dark hair that remained neatly tied underneath her cap.  She curtseyed in Sansa’s presence, to which her mistress nodded politely in response.

“I-I am sorry to intrude at such an hour My Lady, but a letter has arrived for you. A-And we were informed that should it be from y-your brother, The Marquis of Winterfell, that we should present it to you at the instant it is received.” the girl stuttered out, holding her hands up to present the envelope that lay still on the metal tray she carried. 

“Thank you, you are dismissed.” Sansa whispered in response, swiftly taking the letter as she flashed the servant a polite smile. The servant curtseyed once again and shuffled out of her sight, disappearing through the candlelit corridors.

With great haste, Sansa retreated into her room and made her way to the window seat by her armoire, leaning against the cool glass for better lighting. There were several lit candles in the room, but she found moonlight to be kinder to her eyes and she feared that she would accidentally burn the paper as she read it. Her heart pounded in her ears, it had been two weeks since they had received a letter from Robb regarding his elopement. Sansa is not sure whether she will be able to stomach the contents of this next one, she prayed to God that it would not contain something nearly as scandalous.

The paper was milky white beneath the moonlight, with ink as black as the feathers of a raven. She sighed at the sight of the Marquis’ familiar penmanship, a mixture of sharp and jutting consonants in contrast with the soft way he illustrates the vowels in between. The content is significantly longer than the previous letter he had sent, for that much she was already thankful.

 

_Dearest Sansa,_

_I apologise for having informed you and mother about my marriage in the way that I did. Would it suffice to say that I feel nothing but guilt for the pain I have caused? Nonetheless, I have wed Miss Westerling—now Lady Jeyne Winterfell—and intend on bringing her to Yorkshire to present her as the new Marchioness of Winterfell. We have gone to visit her relations in Scotland, I reckon it will take us several more weeks until we finally arrive in Winterfell._

_How is mother faring? I did not receive a letter of response from her when yours came, I assume she is not very pleased with me as of now. Please tell her how I miss her so and look forward to having my bride meet her, I think they will get on splendidly._

_I am not sure how long it has taken for you to receive this letter, I am certain that the postal service is not nearly as efficient as I would like for it to be from Scotland to Yorkshire._

_I left a month ago to accomplish my business as The Marquis of Winterfell, a task that I feel I am scarcely prepared for. Hopefully whatever lessons our father taught me, may the Lord God bless his soul, remain stored somewhere in this head of mine. It was vague of me to depart from the county without further notice, I wouldn’t blame you or mother if you are both distressed by the concerns of Winterfell that I should be addressing—but rest assured I was not busy wooing women and spending our fortune on trips to taverns, meeting Jeyne was entirely by chance._

_I feel that it isn’t safe to discuss with you exactly what I have been doing in my travels, although I intend for you to be informed as soon as possible._

_Jon will be returning to Winterfell, he left London to aid me in my travels you see. When he arrives, please take it upon yourself to be as accommodating to our brother as you can—we both know that mother won’t. He will inform you about everything. We had gone our separate ways not long after I was wed to my bride, though I am certain that he will be taking care of some concerns before finally making for Yorkshire. He said that he would be in your company by the beginning of November._

_Please write back immediately, I long to hear a voice in your letters that doesn’t sound as though you wish to ram me with a bayonet._

_With love,_

_Robb_

 

Sansa did not catch the jape at the end of her older brother’s letter, her mind could barely process a word that the message contained. Writing back at such a late hour was out of the question, her eyes had grown tired and her mind was whirling. She supposed there was no point to ending her day peacefully after sending her mother away. Tonight, she would toss and turn until dark circles formed beneath her eyes and worry lines made a home on her forehead.

Jon was returning to Winterfell.

There had been a time when she thought how sweet it would be to see him again. It was a time of despair, she was practically a prisoner of the Lannister family as she waited for Robb and her mother to travel through half of Britain and take her back to Winterfell. Her father had just died. As Sansa thought of Eddard Stark, her mind wandered to her bastard half-brother Jon, who looked so much like the departed Marquis of Winterfell. Her heart ached at the thought that he might have been dead as well, for Jon was serving as a Captain whose regiment was a part of a heavy cavalry that had gone to battle in Spain. 

Unlike their father, Jon lived.

So her bastard half-brother returned to England a hero, with his reward given in the form of his legitimisation—but he did not bear the Stark name, no.

Jon would be returning to Winterfell a Targaryen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> terms:  
> ton - British high society  
> eight-and-ten - eighteen; double digit ages were said in ones (i.e. twenty-five is five-and-twenty)  
> Marquis - second highest rank in British Peerage next to Duke, owns a march, which is a territory that the Marquis is trusted to defend and fortify against potentially hostile neighbours  
> Marchioness (mar-shuh-ness) - wife of the Marquis  
> wrapper - a thin gown or robe worn for modesty (in the bedroom)


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> age gaps follow Game of Thrones, with Sansa as 18 years old and Arya and Robb and Jon as 16 and 21 years old respectively.

_Sansa_

The eldest Stark daughter awoke to the realisation that she had but four nights left until her guest’s impending arrival.

Daybreak had yet to come, leaving the girl to shift about awkwardly in her bed as she deliberated over the the preparations she would have to make for the Captain’s quarters, which she was certain had gone untouched since his departure from Winterfell.

Sansa did not realise what she had been doing when she found herself standing before the doorway to Jon’s chambers, clad only in her nightgown with her bare feet pressed against the cold wood floor. She could hear the household beginning to stir in the storey below, the sound of busy footsteps and the soft chatter of the servants echoed along the empty hallways of the country house. The young woman tugged nervously at the tip of her braid, unable to keep herself from opening the door to step into the lonely room.

It smelled of dust, stale and so detached from the idea that someone ever took comfort inside; two years had robbed much life from it. Like all other bedrooms on the second floor it was large and finely decorated, though it favoured the Stark colours of white and grey unlike hers of tiffany blue paisley or Rickon’s sunset orange. Sansa ran her hand along the velvet drapes that hung tied to the bed frame, taken aback when her eyes watered up and she began to sneeze. Fine powder danced beneath the sunlight that shined past the glass pane, forming a flurry that pressed its observer to make her way towards the window and unlatch it, welcoming the cool morning air into Jon’s quarters. Though it did little to bring life into the room, Sansa surmised that it was a start. The servants would have much to do before the room became inhabitable once again.

Self-consciousness suddenly gripped her, her mind urging her to leave. It was as though she was violating a stranger’s sanctuary—no matter how long it had been since he last slept in it. So she shuffled out of the room immediately after, her thoughts instead dwelling on how to tell Robb that their mother had left Winterfell.

By the time that Sansa arrived in the dining room to break her fast, her younger siblings had all been in their respective seats. Their eyes were still full of sleep, further emphasised by the fact that—like her—they still wore their night clothes and robes. The food before them remained untouched, she presumed that it was a result of their melancholy, since she too had no appetite in spite of the meal’s delicious aroma. The young lady seated herself next to her first younger brother, who was quick to greet her.

“Good morning sister.” said Bran, his lips upturned in a welcoming smile.

Not so much in a bad mood as compared to the day before, Rickon piped the same words. As expected, Arya’s greeting came in the form of a wry grin.

“I apologise for being late, I had just received a letter from Robb last night and—” As she had expected, the mention of their older brother gave her the undivided attention of her younger siblings, including Rickon, who began to bounce in his seat with excitement when he interrupted her.

“Robb! Robb! Robb! When’s he coming home? Did he get to go hunting with Grey Wind like he said he would?” the child exclaimed, his bright eyes twinkled as he spoke.

Bran gently reprimanded the boy of nine, explaining that as a gentleman he must not interrupt Sansa. Rickon apologised, fidgeting uncomfortably in his seat out of embarrassment.

“Will he be coming home soon?” Arya asked, finally reaching out for the bread basket to begin her meal.

They followed in suit, falling into the usual rhythm of their mornings together. While the younger boy and girl ate heartily and easily piled their food atop of their plates, the older ones gingerly picked at their meals and took dainty bites.

Sansa shook her head, not quite sure about how to phrase what she would say next.

“Robb is in Scotland.”

Bran looked up from his plate in surprise while Arya had given up on chewing altogether, her mouth hanging open to reveal the contents inside.

“Close your mouth sister, a fly might find its way in.” said Sansa in jest.

The young girl opened her mouth wider and stuck her tongue out in response, earning a chuckle from her younger brother who watched the two girls interact. At six-and-ten, Arya had not outgrown her tomboyish behaviour; if anything she took pleasure in purposely acting in such a way. Sansa might have bickered with her like before, but the time that the older girl spent alone as an unwelcome guest to the Lannisters only taught her to appreciate her younger sister’s rebellious spirit—loving her more for it even.

“Why is he there?” asked Rickon.

They had no knowledge of his elopement with a commoner, her mother had insisted that the children remain ignorant for the time being. Catelyn Winterfell had a feeling—a very strong one—that her son had eloped with the wench because he meant to save her reputation after doing something quite dishonourable. Sansa wished it was not so, for then it would mean that Robb barely knew his bride, who could very well be a dreadful woman and try to turn his siblings out as soon as she stepped foot in Winterfell.

“He has some business to attend to there, but he did bring good news. I’m sure you will be pleased to know that Jon will be arriving in four days.” Sansa replied; she tugged nervously at the sash of her wrapper, hoping that they would not press her for more details with regards to their older brother.

Her younger siblings beamed, all three of them competing with one another as they spoke to be heard. She smiled, taking a sip from her glass of water as she listened to each of them debate about who would get to spend time with their half-brother—no—cousin first. But then Arya’s smile faded, her eyes filled with conflict when she suddenly became silent.

Not for the first time, Sansa wondered what the dark-haired girl was thinking.

 

…

 

The following days were perhaps the busiest for the eldest Stark daughter, who had taken the Marquis’ words to heart and did her best to help prepare the country house for their guest’s arrival. Though Mrs. Mordane and Mr. Cassel were more than equipped to run the household staff themselves, the strange anxiety that stirred in Sansa’s chest simply would not allow her to treat the event so lightly.

Sansa had brought it upon herself to supervise the cleaning of Jon’s quarters, always watching from the doorway as they went about from washing the windows to changing the bedsheets. The idea of going any deeper into his room continued to be completely out of the question to her. His clothes were another dilemma altogether. In all those months of neglect, the fabrics had developed stains and running seams that the laundry maids and seamstress had to address. It worried the lady that perhaps he wouldn’t fit in them anymore, as she was unaware of the lifestyle that the acclaimed Captain had been living in for the past two years.

The maids cleared out his closet to sort out the coats and trousers that needed repairing, as he never had the luxury of having a valet to maintain them. The prospect of having such a servant in the household for anyone besides their mother was suggested by Lady Catelyn herself when Robb turned five-and-ten; he had a tendency to tie the most dreadful arrangements for his cravat and was believed to be slightly colour blind. In turn, Sansa and Arya had shared a chamber maid once the older of the two had become three-and-ten while Bran and Rickon were granted a valet just a year ago. Only Jon had not had a servant to aid him in his chambers, which in itself was a show of Lady Catelyn’s blatant dislike for his presence—he took no offence; it was so much like him to say that he found relief in the fact that he had more privacy as a result.

As she watched the maids clean the armoire and return the newly repaired clothes to their places, Sansa found herself recalling the time that Robb had naively suggested that Jon be given a valet to teach him the different ways to fix his cravat. Even at two-and-ten, she had been mean spirited towards the boy she believed to be her father’s bastard; it was her way of emulating her mother. The lady remembered how she laughed at her older brother’s proposition and said that their half-brother would never be able to master anything other than the simple oriental arrangement. In turn Robb scowled at her while Jon’s cheeks flushed as he denied needing any sort of assistance with his wardrobe.

She frowned at the thought of the memory.

Sansa turned away from the man’s bedroom to seek out her sister. The younger girl wished to help prepare for her beloved once-half-brother’s return, seeing to it that his riding boots and equipment were in the best shape and his wolf given a proper bath. Horses and wolves as company for horse-faced Arya, that’s what she always used to say. But her opinions went uncared for; Arya revelled her time in the stables, even more so when Robb taught her to ride while Jon showed her how to shoot a pistol and fence.

With the Captain’s arrival coming any time soon, Lady Sansa found herself uncharacteristically nervous. After everything that she had experienced in the past year, she wondered how much she had changed, as she now viewed her siblings and Jon in a different light. A part of her wished that having Arya as company would allow her to catch the excited anticipation that she assumed her younger sister would be feeling.

It never occurred to Sansa that perhaps she was wrong.

When she reached the stables, Arya had been brushing the coat of her wolf Nymeria as the other wolves lay sleeping around her. The creatures were supposed to be killed, what with the danger they posed to the people of their march. Because they were pups when the departed Marquis found them, he took them into his estate, gave one to each of his children, and had a large kennel built for the animals to roam and play in with their respective masters. Sansa felt a twinge of sadness at the sight of the slumbering canines, remembering how her wolf—Lady—had died when she was a mere pup.

Oddly enough, the one who had always been the most welcoming to her was Ghost, the wolf that Jon left behind to join the war. Upon her return to Winterfell, he began to seek her out; perhaps he knew that she too was without a companion.

As though he sensed her unease, the snow white animal trudged towards her and rubbed his forehead against her palm, silently pleading for her attention. Sansa smiled, rubbing the back of the wolf’s ear to inform him that all was well. She turned to look at her sister, who had stared blankly back at her, brows furrowed together and lips pinched in a thin line.

“Are you not pleased to see me here?” asked the elder of the two, kneeling down to seat herself on the grass.

“Perhaps.” Arya grinned, wriggling her eyebrows to taunt her sibling.

Sansa smiled, returning her attention to stroking Ghost, who had made use of her legs as a pillow for his furry head. The silence resumed, with the dark-haired girl returning to her tedious task of undoing the knots in her wolf’s mane while the other observed her. It was rare, moments like these where they could stay in the same room in peace. Though they no longer fought, Arya was still hostile towards her older sister at times. Sansa could not blame her, as she had been horrible to her younger sister for many years.

“You don’t seem very enthusiastic about our cousin’s return.”

Perhaps it was uncalled for, but the uncertainty in the grey eyes that looked back at her was telling.

“Brother. I don’t care if the bloody King gives Jon his name, he’s our brother and a Stark. Aunt Lyanna may have birthed him, but father raised him as his own…Why does it matter to you anyway?” Arya snapped, the accusatory tone in her voice did not go unnoticed.

Sansa flushed, insulted by the implication in her sisters words.

“It matters to me because neither mother nor Robb is home, meaning I have to take care of all of you while they’re gone. I want you to be happy; you were the closest to Jon so I expected that you’d be more pleased since you haven’t seen him in nearly three years.” she said, trying to steady her tone and calm herself.

_To speak with severity towards a wild hound will only cause it to bare its teeth at you, but to speak to it kindly—though you are the true master—will have the animal bowing its head to you in meek acceptance._

Arya pursed her lips, all fight in her suddenly gone. As though one with her master, Nymeria tilted her head and burrowed into the girl’s skirts in submission. Sansa waited for a response, wondering if her sister was going to speak at all.

“What if he decides that that he likes being a King’s son more than he does a Stark? What if he leaves us again?” the girl asked, her eyes cast downward as her brows furrowed together to form an indentation in between.

Their mother always said that Arya had the largest and most expressive eyes of the children, which was why she would have to keep herself in check and steady her emotions to keep from offending others. As she watched the conflict on her sister’s face, Sansa thought about how there was beauty in her dark-haired sister’s unguarded expressions. Some people could afford to be that way.

But not her, she had learned that the hard way.

“Then we would have to accept that, even if it hurts—” the girl’s face looked more pained at her words, her shoulders dropping into a slump, “—but if you know Jon, you would think better of him than that.”

A sad smile formed on Arya’s lips, prompting Sansa to take her hand and squeeze it as a show of her affection.

The moment was gone as soon as it had begun, with the younger of the two pulling her hand away from her sister’s grasp. She stood up, dusting Nymeria’s fur from her skirts, “Well I am rather famished. Jon isn’t back yet and I am not nearly excited enough for his arrival to starve myself while I wait. I think I will go to the kitchens and ask for some cake…are you coming?”

It was an offer that the other young lady nearly took, but the twisting in her stomach said otherwise. Sansa shook her head instead, taking the brush from Arya’s hand and into her own.

“I think I will stay here with Ghost for a bit more, it’s been some time since I visited him. I believe I owe him a good brush and a hearty meal from our kitchen later.” she replied, petting the wolf’s head as he stared up at her with imploring red eyes.

Arya nodded, excusing herself to return to the house; it had been the most polite that Sansa had ever seen her.

An hour or so had passed by the time that Sansa decided to leave the kennel. Admittedly lonely, she took the great white beast with her to wander around the estate. Perhaps she should have been back inside the house, overseeing the completion of the servants’ preparations for Jon’s return. Her heart clenched with anticipation; she wasn’t ready, the idea of having to deal with another family member who she had personally wronged was torture. She would take comfort in his wolf instead, a part of her foolishly believing that it was her way of compensating for the past.

Ghost followed her as she walked along the stream that led to the lake, occasionally peering into the water to gaze at his snow white reflection. The sky was a mix of bright yellow, blood-orange and red, blending into a muddled purple where it touched the horizon.

 _It is a pretty sight._ The young woman thought.

Her father often did this when he meant to contemplate and gather some peace. He told her once that it calmed him when he was able to appreciate The Lord God’s blessings, for there was no greater gift than the water that gave life and the soil that gave birth to it. Standing on the little bridge that overlooked the dip from the stream to the lake, Sansa wondered if she would ever be able to feel as her father did when he stood here. She leaned over the railings and pressed her forehead against the cool surface of the metal.

No, she probably did not deserve to feel that sort of comfort in the way that he did.

Autumn Gentian flowers bloomed at the other end of the bridge, adorning the opposite side of the estate with hues of purple and blue until it resembled a cloudless sky, glistening beneath the sunlight like the vast ocean.

Before she became a self-proclaimed lady, the eldest Stark girl was a naive child who loved fairytales and had no care for titles and status.

Sometimes she would play with her siblings in the little meadow and lay amidst the flower beds to pretend that she was Sleeping Beauty. Arya and Bran were mere toddlers at that time, leaving Robb and Jon as her sole playmates. Her older brother would always be appointed as the prince while their bastard brother would play the sleeping dragon that guarded her tower—how ironic it turned out to be that the dragon was really a prince in disguise.

Then she decided that she much liked her mother’s parlour over the meadow of her childhood, trading her flowers and playtime for embroidery and etiquette lessons instead. It was only after her father’s death that she found solace in the meadow once again.

Sansa moved to gather several of the blossoms into a bouquet, hoping to take it back into the house to set at the dining table. With winter just a few days away, the flowers would be dead in a matter of time; it would be nice to keep a semblance of the life that thrived before winter came.

So immersed in her task was she that the youth did not realise her furry companion had not followed after her.

The sound of soft laughter filled her ears, a deep and rich baritone sort that reminded her much of the man that was called the Marquis of Winterfell before her brother took the title. Sansa turned around, mouth slightly agape at the sight of Ghost affectionately rubbing his head and paws against the kneeling form of his master.

Suddenly remembering herself, the girl straightened her posture and carried the flowers with her as she approached the young man.

He wore his uniform, so red and perfectly pressed that it could only be a new set befitting a prince. A golden medal hung from his breast pocket, glinting at the touch of dusk.

As strange as it was, the man looked no older than he did the last time she had seen him, save for light worry lines on his forehead and a pink scar by his right eye. If anything, he resembled her father even more—from the soft grey of his irises to his inscrutable countenance and sturdy build, though there was no trace of the beard that was so distinctly her father. It hurt to look at him and see the deceased Marquis in his stead; a dark memory flashed in her mind at the mere sight of her once-half-brother.

Having noticed her, her guest stood, meaning to meet her halfway before presenting himself with a deep bow and impeccably rehearsed words of courtesy. She would not give him the chance to do so, for she would make it a point to speak before he found his own tongue.

“Welcome home, Captain Targaryen.” said Sansa, hoping that she had been right to address him by his legitimised name. That seemed to have been his dream since they were mere children—to be a true-born—surely he was proud. Even though she did not know him as Arya did, she knew him enough to be aware that such an assumption was incorrect.

She curtsied, recalling that she was in the presence of a King’s son.

Jon smiled in response, though it did not reach his eyes; they were eyes of a man who had seen much.

He took her hand in his gloved one and gently pressed it to his lips, the touch of her bare flesh to his own caused the girl’s heart to lurch in her chest. She does not know him, and yet she does.

They are strangers in all aspects but blood.

“Thank you, My Lady.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter to be from Jon's POV.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is about two times longer than the first chapter, I hope you can bear with me! I wanted to be more in depth with Jon since Sansa had two chapters revolve around her.

_Jon_

 

The sun was still high up in the sky when he arrived at the Stark mausoleum.

It reminded him of one of the more pleasant days that he’d spent onboard a ship while on his journey to Spain. At that time it felt like a bad omen, the calm before the storm of blood, sweat, and gunpowder. The young man was not so wrong to believe such; the scars he bore on his skin and the ones that dug deeper were proof of that. Although he liked to think that it was different today, for today the bright sky posed not as a warning of future horrors, but as a silent message from his father that perhaps all would be right again.

That they could all find happiness once everything was over.

Standing before the departed Marquis’ crypt, Jon could not decide whether or not he would have preferred to have rain and thunder as his companions while he silently brooded over all that had passed since leaving Winterfell. It was chilly inside, where everything was made of limestone and grey marble, the only indication that the tomb belonged to the Starks was the family crest that hung above the main entrance.

He had forgotten how cold the north could be.

In battling a war that had yet to be won, he gained a father that had refused to claim him for over twenty years. It meant nothing to him though, not when he had lost the man who had acted as his true father in the process. The dark-haired youth remained kneeling by Eddard Stark’s crypt for much longer than an hour, unable to pull himself away from the sight. Here before him was all that remained of the man that he would easily give up his own life for, a man who risked his own reputation and marriage to protect an infant that was not his to begin with.

 _Targaryen spawn_ they called him, because nothing could be quite as insulting as being the bastard of a Prince who—though ruled to spare the Kingdom of his mad father—was believed to be a coward who preferred his music and fashion to serving his people while they shed blood for him.

The rumours first started when he met King Rhaegar—still a Prince at that time—at a private party that the Lord Tyrion Lannister had forced him to attend a few weeks before he purchased his own regiment. Though he was not particularly fond of the imp, he had gone with the man’s idea to try a game of baccarat to win himself some money, mostly due to the fact that it shamed him to ask his father for large numbers. With the guidance of his fair-haired companion, he had won five thousand pounds, which was more than enough for him to purchase one regiment.

When Jon intended to leave the event, his efforts had been halted by the Prince’s insistence to meet him. He had heard of the stories about the Prince and his deceased aunt Lyanna, how they were secretly married until King Aerys tore them apart; people said that she died of heartbreak not long after that. Meeting the Prince was an unpleasant experience to say the least; the man looked at him as though he were seeing a ghost from the past, and Jon dreaded how he always seemed to be on the receiving end of people's tactless stares.

 _I knew your mother once._ The flaxen haired man said.

Jon was taken aback at first, for his father never spoke of the woman that bore him. Out of respect for the Marquis’ privacy and distrust for the Regent, he did not endeavour to learn more. So gossip made like the wind while carrying Rhaegar Targaryen’s words with it, and when the older man finally made his claim, his words only served to thrust upon the young man two legacies that meant to weigh him down.

Having realised that he was running behind schedule, the Captain made his way to the mausoleum’s entrance to depart from the dark site.

He turned one last time to gaze upon the crypt of Eddard Stark, finding that the grief in his heart had been renewed; memories of his childhood with the man picked at the flesh wound that festered and devoured what little of him was trying so hard to survive. His legs pulled him away from the old edifice, leading him into the coach that waited for him by the gate.

_I may not be whole anymore, but I will not let your family follow in suit._

The vehicle lurched forward, temporarily interrupting his train of thought. If the coachman was fast enough, Jon would be able to make it to the Stark estate in time for supper, perhaps even before the sun set. Twilight was always prettiest in Yorkshire, where the sky was a vibrant red and the wind a constant whether it was in the middle of winter or a warm summer’s day.

He watched the rolling hills and plains stretch out in a sea of green, the cool wind gently ruffling the trees that stood tall and proud along the road they travelled down. The lush land alone would have been enough to keep him from ever leaving again.

As a child he used to fall asleep inside the coach whenever he and Robb went to town with their father, lulled by the calming atmosphere of his surroundings. Jon dreamt of it every night on his last days in Salamanca, disenchanted by the truth behind the kind of people he served. But he could not sleep now, for his thoughts lingered on the family that awaited his return. How much had they changed since he left? Since their father’s death? A part of him feared that Lady Catelyn would ask him to leave, that she would still view him as an impurity in her home, perhaps even a reminder of the husband that she had lost.

An hour passed before he first caught sight of the estate, a breathless sigh escaped his mouth as he gazed outside the window. No matter how large and imposing the castle was, or how long it had been since he slept inside, it was still his home. He thought of the children that he left behind, heart racing with anticipation to see them once more.

Arya, with her face that was so much like his and whose embrace always managed to bring comfort to him. Bran, with his inquisitive nature that had the boy stirring up trouble since he was a babe. Rickon, who stood barely past his hips when he last saw the boy. Even Sansa, who—though she was not a child at all when he left—had maintained a naïveté about her that she’d absorbed from her fairytale books. She was his only half-sibling who did not say goodbye to him. Though it slightly hurt, a part of him could not help but remember that none of them were truly his half-siblings to begin with, if only in spirit and affection.

Nonetheless he looked forward to his reunion with all of them, unable to suppress the grin that formed on his lips.

After nearly three years away, Jon had expected that the children would miss him, but what he did not expect was for a full grown girl to launch herself into his arms and attempt to squeeze the life out of him as soon as he stepped foot in the foyer.

“You’re late!” Arya snapped, her grey eyes burning with irritation.

The glare faded quickly, replaced by sniggers and a grin that could have mirrored his own. This. He missed dearly.

The man pulled the girl—no—young woman into another embrace, somehow at a loss with the fact that she had grown so much since he had last seen her. Though still long-faced, his little sister had managed to put on some weight, filling out her cheeks and giving a healthy glow to her otherwise pale complexion. Jon pat her head as they pulled away, remembering how he had done the same when they said goodbye to one another.

“I apologise, I have been preoccupied with other concerns.”

Arya rolled her eyes and lightly punched her brother in the arm, “Well you’re back now and that’s what matters. We’ve got a whole lot of lessons to catch up on; I haven’t used my pistol since you actually gave it to me, so I expect you to teach me how to master my aim. Lord knows you’ve had enough practise.”

Jon chuckled in response, having taken notice of the way that the dark-haired girl eyed his medal. She tapped at it lightly and made a face at him, looping her arm around his to lead him away from the entrance.

“Where are the others?” he asked, looking behind them to check if the coachman had begun to unload his luggage.

“Welcome back, Sir Jon. We are delighted by your return. I am afraid that Lord Rickon is taking his mid-day nap while Lord Bran is currently hiding somewhere in the castle along with his books, I assure you that he will be informed about your arrival as soon as he is found.” said Mr. Cassel, who would have been the first to greet the young man had Arya not beat him to it.

In spite of being quite above the tasks of a butler as the resident steward of the estate, Mr. Cassel had always been fond of Jon.

The elderly man’s statement was responded with a smile from the younger one, his eyes filled with mirth, “Pray do not wake him on my behalf, I will still be here when he comes around. Bran will emerge eventually, though I reckon he is in the old watch tower for some peace.”

“I will go get him, he’ll be furious with me if I don’t; I promised him that I would be the one to fetch him when you finally came.” declared his younger sister, her dark brow cocked up in the sardonic manner it always did when she was being condescending.

“Well I am glad to know that I am missed.” Jon replied, lightly pinching Arya’s cheek until she swat his hand away and quickly made an obscene gesture before Mr. Cassel could catch her doing so.

Always a proper lady.

She told him to wait in the drawing room, turning on her heel to rush out of the house and fetch their younger brother.

“Shall I escort you to your chambers first, Sir? Everything has been cleaned, your linens replaced, and your wardrobe washed. Although I must warn you that I do not think that it is quite complete, for some of your coats had to be taken in by a seamstress for repair.” his elderly companion stated, gesturing up to the staircases for the servants to carry his luggage up to.

Surprised by Mr. Cassel’s words, Jon could not help but inquire about his quarters, “My wardrobe? Under whose instructions, Sir? You do not mean to say that Lady Catelyn was expecting my arrival?” The collar of his coat suddenly seemed tighter, it shamed him to think that he still feared the widow of his father.

The steward shook his head, removing his eyeglasses to gingerly clean it with the handkerchief in his breast pocket.

“No, Sir. The Dowager Marchioness is not here, she was called away from Winterfell to see her sister…It was under the instructions of Lady Sansa.” the old man replied, returning his eyeglasses to perch on the bridge of his crooked nose.

Jon nodded in understanding, at a loss with the information that Mr. Cassel had disclosed to him.

Sansa had been the one to prepare for his arrival.

The idea that she would take any interest in his return at all was startling enough. Suspicion and self-consciousness crept up in his mind for the shortest moment, only to be swept aside by feelings of shame and gratitude. There was no reason to question her kindness, he knew better than to think she was the same sort of person she had been three years ago. The man frowned, declining Mr. Cassel’s offer in order to excuse himself to the kennel instead.

It had been much too long since he had seen his beloved wolf, Ghost.

He navigated through the corridors easily until he exited the back of the castle to march past the stables, taking note of the few changes the were made inside his old home. Jon wondered how large his wolf had grown; though the animal had been the runt of the litter when he fell into Jon’s arms, Ghost had proved to be a good companion and formidable hunting partner. He had missed his white shadow.

It was only when he was about to unlatch the entrance gate to the kennel that he caught a glimpse of what he was looking for—walking along the bridge that stretched over the stream cutting through the estate. The dark-haired man smiled, watching as the wolf’s ears perked up mere seconds after Jon stopped to observe of his old friend. Ghost turned around and stared at back him, red eyes anchored to grey.

A moment of understanding passed between them, followed by the thrum of the wolf’s paws against the green grass as he ran towards his master. The animal jumped onto his hind-legs and let out the tiniest whimper, rubbing his head against Jon’s chest until he knelt to the ground to embrace the overgrown pup. Ghost was no longer a pup; his teeth had become the sharpest that his master had ever seen, and he was so large that the wolves of the other Stark children could not possibly be greater in size.

“And here I thought you wouldn’t remember me.” Jon laughed, scratching behind the wolf’s ear.

The animal looked up at him with what resembled a smile, his tongue hanging from his wide mouth as his white tail wagged from side to side. Ghost nuzzled his master once again, earning a belly rub as a reward for his enthusiastic display of affection.

A strange feeling passed over Jon, as if he was being watched. Months of battle had taught him to never ignore that feeling. He looked up to see a young woman standing amidst the little meadow of blue and violet flowers—Autumn Gentian if he recalled—the meadow of his childhood.

Her hair was done in a simple chignon, with deep red waves spilling from the sides of her ears, inadvertently framing her prominent cheekbones and blue eyes. He remembered that face. It was evident how it had changed from one of an adolescent to one of an adult, but she was still radiant.

Something else about her was different, though he could not say.

She approached him, her hands full of blossoms that she had picked from the ground. Jon stood immediately, unsure of what to say to the girl that he did not think he knew anymore.

“Welcome home, Captain Targaryen.” the young woman said.

Her voice was deeper now, more soft spoken and gentle. In spite of barely being the taller of the two, he looked down to meet her steady gaze when he was about to reply. He could not tell which surprised him more, that she addressed him by his legitimised name and curtsied to him or that he had been able to identify what it was about her that changed.

He did not see the youthful innocence that he saw in his other siblings, the innocence that he used to see in her all those years ago—it was never difficult for him to remember, not when they interacted with one another so rarely. Growing up, she always seemed to be the picture of the innocent maiden that all revered; there were more changes in the estate than he imagined.

Sansa Stark had haunting eyes, eyes of a person who had known what it meant to suffer and survive.

The young man suppressed a frown, remembering his brother’s words when they met up at the outskirts of London. He had been newly legitimised and weary from the war, prepared to return and find solace in Winterfell until Robb proposed that they pursue something else before he had his peace.

_It’s got to be more than what those damned lions are making it to be. You should have seen her, Jon. She was so…so broken…she saw it with her own eyes. I swear to God and all the saints that father would never do what they’re accusing him of. What cause would he have?_

Refusing to be distracted by other concerns, Jon allowed the Marquis’ words to fade from his mind, at least for the time being. Having seen that his once-half-sister intended on addressing him so formally, he decided that he would follow the rules of conduct as dictated by the society of the _ton_. He smiled at her and took one of her hands from the bouquet she held, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of her knuckles. It smelled of the Autumn flowers, light and fresh, very kind to his senses.

“Thank you, My Lady.”

Her response came in the form of a demure smile, unaccompanied by the twinkling of her blue eyes.

The Jon of nearly three years ago might have supposed that a genuine smile would not have been reserved for one of the likes of him, but the current him—the one that learned what it meant to hold a dying lover in his arms and a good friend as they bled to death—thought that perhaps Sansa was not so different from him after all. She too bore her own scars, scars so deep that her skin thickened until it became a sturdier shield against pain.

“Jon!”

The Captain looked up at the sound of a young boy’s voice, surprised to see that in the place of the child he had left behind was a gangly adolescent with unkempt auburn waves grown past his chin. Arya walked next to her younger brother, her face alight with joy. He turned back to his red-haired sister, finding that her hand was still encompassed in his. Without another thought, he released her and called out Bran’s name, a gentle smile spreading on his lips as they approached on another. Jon embraced Bran tightly, taking notice of the fact that the boy would outgrow him much sooner than later. He held the boy in his arms and pretended that he did not see the tears in the child's eyes.

None of them may have suffered in exactly the same way over the past three years, but they had suffered nonetheless.

Dinner looked to be a potentially wild affair, with all sense of etiquette thrown out of the window as soon as the Stark siblings set foot in the dining room. After having spent the afternoon being entertained by Arya and Bran—or rather, entertaining them—Jon transferred his attention to Rickon, who had taken to wearing his badge and marching about as though he were a soldier. It is a path that the boy will probably take when he is much older, but the man’s memories haunted him. He found himself silently praying that when the time comes, his little brother will choose otherwise.

“Sit at the head of the table Jon! You’re Captain!” exclaimed Rickon, pulling along his companion towards his intended destination.

Jon paused, feeling his throat tighten at the realisation of where the red-haired child meant to seat him.

He stood before his father’s seat, plates and cutleries set out on a place that was supposedly no longer of use. Their other siblings froze, expressions stricken with what he deemed to be grief and genuine shock with Rickon’s offer. Lady Catelyn’s own plates and cutleries were set in her place next to her deceased husband’s, the empty seats only serving to further emphasise how alone the children were. After all this time, it seemed that each of them were grappling for whatever remnant they could keep of Eddard Stark.

“Oh no, Rickon—”

Though she had already been helped to her seat by a servant, Sansa immediately stood up, causing Jon to wonder if she meant to scold and force the unruly child onto his seat. It was to their great astonishment that she did none of that, but instead moved to settle herself in her mother’s chair.

“I-It is fine. I suppose there’s no harm, this is our little welcome banquet for Jon after all.” she said with a tender smile directed at their youngest brother, “Come on now Arya and Bran, move to the next seats so we won’t have a problem talking over dinner.”

The two siblings stared at their older sister for a second more, their eyes filled with reluctance as they transferred closer to where Sansa sat. Rickon beamed, hastily jumping onto the chair across Sansa before Arya could claim it for herself.

With great hesitation, Jon took the seat that the youngest Stark had offered him, his mind screaming for him to move elsewhere before it would implode in his head. It felt wrong, if anyone were to take their father’s place on the table it should have been Robb. Jon was only a bastard, a stranger’s bastard at that.

The meal began once the extravagant dishes were set, setting his stomach churning with hunger at the sight of the chestnut soup and honey roasted chicken. Although he had been invited to dine with the King upon his return from Spain, nothing seemed to compare to the home-cooked dishes of the Stark estate. It mattered little to Jon whether it was sentimentality that made the food as delicious as he found it to be, months of cold gruel made anything look like a present from the angels and Stark food a glimpse of paradise. Seated with the people he was raised with, it was admittedly close enough.

“I am Captain Stark! Surrender or I will blow your head to bits!” exclaimed Rickon, holding in his fork up as imaginary bayonet that he had aimed at Arya, who decided to play along by using her bread as a substitute for her own weapon.

His other sister patiently advised the two to stop, urging them to finish their meals out of respect to everyone else who was behaving properly. The young man watched with a small smile threatening to grow on his lips, recalling how Lady Catelyn had once done the same to him and Robb when they were children.

“You’ll be staying with us for good won’t you?” Jon looked to Sansa’s right, meeting Bran’s inquisitive gaze with a rather startled one.

It was a question that he had been anticipating since leaving the King’s residence, but he was caught off-guard nonetheless.

“Of course he is, his place is with us.” cut it Arya, casting a condescending look in her younger brother’s way.

There was a pause of silence in the room after the Captain’s lack of a response, earning him a look of hurt that flashed in his beloved sister’s eyes, “Jon?”

“I am not sure how long I have with you all, there are a few things that I must attend to that call me from Winterfell.”

As a man he should have been able to face the disappointed looks directed at him, but as a brother he was ashamed to admit that his guilt rendered him incapable of doing so. The meal had become Arya’s grey eyes filled with sadness, Rickon’s trembling mouth, and the strain in Bran’s jaws that told him the boy was gritting his teeth to keep from crying.

“It’s King Rhaegar isn’t it? He’s got no right to take you from us! Tell him he’s a complete dunderhead and to go to hell!” Arya exclaimed, her fist slamming hard against the surface of the table.

Disbelief burst in Jon’s chest, somewhat betrayed by the implications that simmered in his sister’s assumption. When he opened his mouth to speak, his attention was immediately drawn to the autumn-haired woman that admonished the younger girl.

“That’s enough, Arya.”

There was neither any tinge of irritation nor anger in Sansa’s voice, her soft tone instead accompanied by a gentleness that he had never heard her use on their dark-haired sister. Whenever she spoke as a child, she was never far from sounding frivolous or frustratingly naive. Everyone in the room seemed to be at a loss for words, including Arya, who had decided that she no longer wanted to join them in the dining room.

“Arya.”

She did not turn to address his one-word plead for her to continue dining with her siblings. Jon attempted to call out her name again, only to have the temporary Lady of the house stop him by the touch of her pale hand to his calloused one. He turned to Sansa with concern, hoping that she did not see the surprise in his eyes when he looked back into her own, so calm and blue.

“If you intend to comfort her, it would be best to give her some time to cool down.” her fingers twitched over his, so soft and unfamiliar against his skin.

 _Not in front of Bran and Rickon._  

He flushed at the realisation that it took him a moment to understand what she meant. Bewilderment struck him; he knew how to handle Arya when she was angry, at least...he used to.

Jon glanced over at Bran and Rickon, puzzled by the strange expression that the younger child wore as his bright blue eyes flickered between him and Sansa. His sister slowly withdrew her hand and continued her meal, tearing a piece of her bread to spread butter on it. He cast an apologetic look towards the boys, gulping down the glass of wine that the servants had prepared for him.

As much as he had looked forward to his return, the man was hoping that he would not feel as tired and vexed as he currently did.

They later transferred to the main drawing room when they had finished their desserts, with Jon admittedly pleased that his favourite bread pudding was served. While he never appreciated staying indoors, it felt good to feel so at home in a safe and warm environment for the first time in nearly three years. He and his younger brothers maintained their soft chatter as Sansa read by the firelight, occasionally watching them as they played chess and a few card games that he had learned in the army.

She was quiet, but it was much different from before; her silence once seemed to be a result of her desire to be the perfect lady, today felt as though it was simply she preferred to observe and listen. As Bran studied his strategy on the chess board, Jon's eyes flickered to his Lady sister, throat suddenly drying at the sight of her red waves seemingly melding together with the fire that burned next to her. It reminded him of something—someone—whom, he could not say.

Old Nan came not long after he finished his fifth chess game with Bran, curtly greeting him before she urged the two younger boys to withdraw to their bedrooms. It took much effort to convince the boys to follow the elderly woman, with the children only agreeing to leave when Jon claimed that he too was exhausted from his travels. Bran and Rickon departed quickly, leaving the young man to help their sister tidy up the room and put away the books and game boards that were out of place. It was odd, for this had been the first time that he had ever seen Sansa insist on fixing the room instead of having the servants clean it themselves. They worked in silence, merely accompanied by the soft crackling of the firewood and the drag of their shoes against the carpeted floor.

“Thank you for helping me, you really didn’t have to.” Sansa spoke, picking up her book from atop side table.

Her back was to the fireplace, creating a silhouette of red that nearly rendered her face completely covered by the room’s darkness.

Jon nodded, packing up the last of the chess pieces that were strewn across the little table he had used with their brothers, “It is no inconvenience at all. I reckon that I caused most of the mess in this room tonight.”

If she smiled, the shadows on her face kept him from knowing for certain. He opened the door for her when they walked out of the drawing room, falling a step behind her by force of habit. It would be rude for a bastard like him to even be in the presence of a high society lady such as her, it did not matter whether she was his half-sister or cousin.

_But you are not longer a bastard._

Sansa halted to a stop when they were halfway up the staircases, her hand tightly gripping the book she held to her chest.

“I hope you know that you’re welcome here for as long as you want to stay with us. You’re family after all.”

Jon froze, caught off guard by the sincerity in the autumn-haired girl’s voice. He could not help but think of the past, when she never seemed to think twice about insulting him one day and coldly ignoring him the next. She peered back at him from over her shoulder, the outline of her profile glowed beneath the flickering candles that hung along the hallways.

“Thank you.” he whispered, taking a step up so that he would not have to tilt his head to look her in the eye.

She gave him a small smile in response and continued to make her way up the stairs. The young man followed after her, still trying to sort out his thoughts before speaking once again.

“Sansa, about leaving—” she turned around completely now, nearly of the same height as him as they stood on even ground.

Her face was strained. He wondered if she was expecting what he would say next, it was likely that she did. Guilt filled him, it suddenly felt wrong to spring the subject matter on her before they each turned in for the night. Jon thought of Robb’s words to him before they went their separate ways, afraid that he would possibly never find it in his heart to tell Sansa the truth behind his return. She was anticipating it, he knew.

But he would not tell her tonight.

“I—I intend on staying however long I must until Robb returns with his wife. I presume the Marquis wouldn’t be pleased with me if I left you to care for the children all on your own.” the young man continued, feeling his cheeks heat up with bashfulness.

Robb had always been the more confident one between the two of them.

The tense expression in her eyes softened, replaced by a genuine sparkle of mischief in her eyes.

“No, I suppose he wouldn’t.” she replied, a soft curl falling against her face when she shook her head, “Goodnight.” Sansa curtsied, that she did not address him as her brother or cousin did not go unnoticed.

In all honestly the Captain was slightly offended, but they had always been on unsteady grounds around one another. It would be unfair of him so say that she had not proven herself to be a sincere and changed individual over the past few hours he had spent in her presence. He bid her goodnight in return, watching as she made for her quarters on the opposite end of the hallway.

Sansa was a haunting figure beneath the candlelight and darkness, the navy blue of her gown dragging behind her as she walked away. Only her red hair brought brightness to her pale form. There were never any horror stories about red-haired maidens, women of her sort served more as muses for damsels and folktales of mythological faeries and nymphs.

The mischievous glint in her blue eyes crossed his mind, and Jon surmised that she resembled the nymphs a little more than the damsels. He thought about how his sister did not remind him of her mother nearly as much as he thought she did.

Perhaps it was a good thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arya is rather angsty, hope you don't see her as being out of character. I hope I'm doing justice to all the characters and their relationships so far. Follow me on tumblr (wandering-scavenger.tumblr.com) for updates.


	4. Chapter 4

_Jon_

  

_“Thought you could take everything because of your supposed ‘Targaryen privilege’ eh? Think again, French-fucker.”_

_His whole body was wracked with pain, nothing could have prepared him for the throbbing wound that clenched at his side. It never occurred to the young man that he would ever experience anything more agonising than the two gunshots that he had received from his long passed lover. He remembers the betrayed look on her face when she realised that he was the enemy, the hatred that battled with the hurt that stormed in her blue eyes. The memory is as fresh in his mind as the blood that seeps past his flesh._

_He loves her still, but this wound is physically ten times more excruciating._

_No scream escapes from his mouth, he heaves instead, gasping for air as the blood stains through his coat and onto his bare hands. He has seen much more, the sight of his blood only makes the reality of it all so much heavier. He looks up to see the faces of the men that have betrayed him, recounting each and every one of their names until his head is hazy from blood loss._

_“Finish it then.” he spits out._

_A part of him wonders if he welcomes death more than he ought to._

_Father will be waiting for him, he supposes that it will not be so bad to die at this very moment. His lover might even be there with his father as well, twirling her little pistol around to tease him when he arrives. He will apologise for not taking her with him when he fled, though he is certain she would not have gone with him even if he begged her._

_The man who had plunged the knife into his stomach smiles, brandishing the weapon with a handkerchief while the other men stared down at him with contempt, “Aye, no need to be so eager, Milord.”_

_They are mocking him, but he cannot bring himself to care; he would rather not die feeling so vexed by his murderers. He had done his part in the war, aiding the Duke of Wellington in claiming Badajoz and taking command in Salamanca. There were still many battles to be fought, but at least they would not be able to say that he had not given his life for their country._

_When Thorne raises his arm up for the fatal blow, the passage of time itself seems to have slowed. He is watching from above, looking down upon the scene that would be his death, his final goodbye to the world that he was born into._

_It is only when he feels his spirit being dragged back into body that the screams fill his ears and his world is engulfed in black._

_JON._

 

The young man awoke drenched in sweat, tangled in a mess of thin linen sheets and his newly washed quilt. He sat up immediately, clutching at the dull pain in his side as he tried to steady his shaking breaths.

“Jon? Are you up?” it was Arya’s voice, loud and clear through the hard wood of his bedroom doors.

She knocked several times more before he finally managed to pull out of his panicked state. He hollered a response from his bed, knowing that she expected for him to get changed and meet her at the foyer as soon as possible. Exhausted, the Captain sank back onto the mattress; the sun had yet to fully rise.

Home. Safe and surrounded by the people he loved—the knowledge of that should have been enough to give him restful sleep at night, but he was wrong to think so. Despite this, Jon could not bring himself to be disappointed.

He would much rather dream his nightmares every night than live in one even in the day.

Heaving himself off the bed, the Captain shuffled to the bathroom and wet his face, hoping to wash away the sleep that had not left his eyes just yet. It took him a moment to gather his wits and familiarise himself with the room he now lived in. Though four days had passed since his return to the Stark estate, his mind had yet to grasp that he was finally home. It was clear that the near two months he had spent on British soil had done little to ease his mind. His living quarters were very handsome, as was expected from any suite in the castle, but he personally loved his bedroom. It had been his for eight-and-ten years, and now it was his once more…at least for the time being.

There was much that had to be discussed, particularly with Sansa. They had not had a chance to be alone in each other’s company since his first night in Winterfell; it seemed as though his sister was purposely avoiding the chance of being in that very same situation once again.

She was neither cold to him nor indifferent in his presence, for in all fairness the young woman truly did speak to him when they dined with the rest of their siblings or had tea in the garden all together. That was not good enough though, they could not continue to delicately creep around each other in fear of one saying something that the other did not wish to hear. Jon would not have it any longer; he had twiddled his thumbs together for too long to go on pretending that he was not pressed for time.

While he was certain that it was much too early an hour to see if the Lady was awake, Jon was just as certain that she was. Still, Arya expected him to take her to the village nearby as he promised. It seemed that he would have to seek Sansa after his little trip with their sister. Having shrugged on his grey waistcoat, Jon pulled at his drawer of cravats, only to be caught off guard at the sight of two unfamiliar silk cloths that he had not noticed the day before. Strange, the servants would not be daft enough to mistake an item of Bran’s for his own. He concluded that it could only be a present from either of his sisters, although Arya would not seem the type to gift him with such a thing, especially since she was still upset with him. Sansa on the other hand had never been so thoughtful, until now that is. The young man pulled at the creme coloured of the two, wrapping it around his neck to begin tying the cravat into a half-Windsor knot. When the finishing touches were made, Jon took his black coat and exited his bedroom.

Arya had been leaning against the wall of the foyer entrance, her dark hair unkempt and girlish form clad in a dark undress as always. She allowed her older brother to lead her out of the house, though as expected she refused his offered hand when she pulled herself into the coach. Jon let it to slip without protest, understanding that Sansa was not the only sister that he had been treading on thin ice with. Arya’s eyed shifted onto his cravat then out the window; her brother taking her silence as confirmation of his suspicions. He wondered if he tied the item properly.

It took two days for Jon to finally convince Arya to accompany him out, the only reason she had accepted was that he offered to buy her Hessian boots to replace her own feminine riding boots, which she had always detested. Jon hoped to mend the unease between him and his sister, an unpleasant stay in Winterfell was the last thing he wanted.

The ride to the Ripley village spanned less than an hour, with the early morning mist still lingering among the houses and the workers quietly leaving their modest homes to begin the day.

A small marketplace settled at the centre of the community, and the young man remembered how he used to visit the place with his brother; it was a popular spot for travellers to come upon on their journey crossing past North Yorkshire. The marketplace held many delights for both the villagers and travellers who visited, from delicate copper trinkets to beautiful fans and handsome top hats. He and Robb had admittedly bought several finely crafted gloves and quizzing glasses back when they were green boys, the reasonable prices having pulled them into the deal without a second thought. Jon grinned to himself, knowing that it would be inappropriate to recall such a memory before members of the ton, who valued name above quality and cost.

“Come along, I sent a letter to him a few days ago. We will be meeting him in his home.” he told Arya, meaning to navigate through the village quickly and be on his way as soon as they were finished with their visit to the tradesman.

The house was like every other in the quaint village, though the two siblings were surprised by what awaited them within. A tall and gangly man emerged from behind the door a few moments after Jon’s hand rapped against it, his disheveled appearance taking both the siblings off-guard. The smile one his face put them at ease, more so Arya, who did not take kindly to strangers.

“Ah you must be Captain Targaryen! Please come in!” said the man, ushering his guests inside with haste.

The softened expression on his dark-haired sister’s face disappeared, replaced by a resentful demeanour that rolled onto Jon’s person in giant waves of loathing. He held back the grimace that threatened to form on his own face, wishing that he still carried his old name as he had for twenty years. They followed as instructed, with the young man’s murmur of thanks accompanied by a meek smile on his lips.

The furniture inside informed the two guests that the owner earned more than a humble fee with the business he ran. Robb had been the one to inform him that a man who imported German goods had recently settled in Winterfell, Jon had forgotten how his brother tended to have a taste for the expensive. Fine rugs lay across the floor of the drawing room and porcelain vases rested on lacquered hard-wood tables, evoking an air of luxury in the tradesman’s abodes.

“Mr. Blackthorne, may I introduce you to my sister, the Lady Arya Stark.”

A befuddled look crosses the man’s eyes, as though he was attempting to understand Jon’s connection to Arya, who did not carry the same surname as him. Recognition soon replaced that confusion, followed by the man’s deep bow, “Good morning to you, My Lady! I apologise, I did not realise that I would be receiving the Marquis’ sibling as a guest as well.”

Arya’s eyebrows arched together in a scowl, the tone in her voice condescending when she accepted his apology and curtsied as she was taught. Mr. Blackthorne scurried to the next room, making an offer of tea that had been politely declined by a reluctant Jon and his indignant sibling.

“I understand that you were hoping to purchase for yourself a pair of Hessian boots? I have made an inventory for you to look through, you will find that only the best will be given to a Prince!”

Jon had not meant to cringe so obviously at the title, but the young man found that he could not even bring himself to correct the man for fear of appearing even more ill-mannered.

“No Sir, I was actually looking to purchase a pair of Hessians for my sister here.” he replied, hoping that Arya would not look so severely at their attendant as she did.  
Mr. Blackthorne paused for a few moments and nodded slowly in response, likely taken aback by the peculiarity of the two companions. Jon doubted that many people ever met a King’s legitimised bastard with a sister who resembled him in every way and yet was not his sister in actuality. With the man as a supposed newcomer to the county, it was certain that Mr. Blackthorne did not know him as anything but a legitimised Targaryen.

When all was said and done, the tradesman led them out the door and bid them a good day, reminding them that he would readily be at their service if needed. In spite of Arya’s insistence, Jon carried her package for her, as it would be completely impertinent of him to do otherwise.

“I can carry my own things.” she hissed, reaching out her arm to grab her gift from her brother.

The Captain walked ahead and merely grinned, knowing quite well that his little sister was never truly bothered when he spoilt her for as long as he could admit that she was capable on her own, “Tsk. None of that. I just bought you a gift. Now let’s visit the market to see what we can bring home for the others.”

The younger girl rolled her eyes, hurrying after him as they made their way towards the busy mart. Having visited Ripley on several occasions in the past, the two had not gone unnoticed by the villagers, who enthusiastically addressed them. Some were even as bold as to approach them and congratulate Jon on his coming back to Winterfell. Their kindness was warmly received by the man; his best not to fidget awkwardly when the women paid him with bold compliments.

He knew better than to think that they were as sincere as they appeared. It did not help that no one had called him by his old name, the name that he had dreamt of dutifully bearing for years.

Winterfell was his home, but that did not mean that his legitimisation was deemed unimpressive. Everyone was aware that a Northern woman had caught the eye of a Targaryen over two decades ago, who was to say that it could not be accomplished once again?

With great effort and Arya’s assistance, Jon managed to excuse himself from entertaining old acquaintances to continue his business and reach the Stark estate in time for breakfast. He had managed to purchase some freshly made pastries for the boys to share, leaving only one more sibling for him to worry about. The young man was at a complete loss, having no knowledge whatsoever when it came to purchasing little gifts for a proper lady.

“—and to think that she’s flouncing about the market with Captain Targaryen _unchaperoned_. How scandalous! I hear the Dowager Marchioness left a week ago, I would bet my best bonnet that she’d go mad if she knew about this.”

Jon looked up upon hearing the words, unaware that a few women had been watching them so closely until he overheard their tittle-tattle as he shuffled through a little stall of fans lined side by side. The speaker had been a snub-nosed girl with fair hair, her brows raised in intrigue. She was accompanied by what appeared to be her plump mother and a mousy young girl, perhaps a friend.

Arya had been a few stalls away, seemingly occupied by the cheap pocket watches that the seller was animatedly lecturing her about. Her dark hair was a curtain that rest on one side of her neck, and strangely—the young man was struck by how feminine his sister appeared at that moment. An image of what his mother must have looked like when she was that young.

“They say that the Stark girls are as wild as those mangy wolves that the departed Lord Winterfell gave to his children. One would think that they’d learn from the scandal that Lady Lyanna brought upon their family when she fled with King Rhaegar—” the tone of the mother was as haughty as her child’s, though it was tinged with what sounded to be jealousy until her daughter had interrupted her.

“Oh I heard that she wed King Rhaegar at _Gretna Green_ , but his father separated them and claimed it to be null.”

“Would that not mean that Captain Targaryen is really a Prince then?” asked the mousy girl, her eyes wide with excitement.

The young man looked away, realising that he did not wish to be caught staring so blatantly at a group of women. He heard the older woman laugh, feeling his neck grow hot with indignation. After nearly one-and-twenty years, Jon was still at times deeply affected by the derision with which people spoke of him because of his status as a bastard, as though he even had a say as to whether or not he would be born to wedded parents.

“Prince or not, it is extremely inappropriate of the girl to be alone in the company of a male cousin! Even more so considering that she is nearing the age of being presented to society! If I may say so myself, she must be following in the footsteps of her older sister! A scarlet woman in the making that Lady is, seems fitting for a girl with hair as red as sin.” replied the mother, her voice raised louder; perhaps she intended for the Captain to listen to their entire conversation.

“I heard that she was an impossible flirt during her stay with the Baratheon family. Why, she had already been engaged to Lord Storm’s End but still she threw herself at his imp of an uncle and the heir of Highgarden!”

At that instant, Jon felt as though it was his duty to defend not only Arya, but Sansa as well. It was not that he was never protective towards the older of the two girls, but that he had never felt that Sansa ever needed him to defend her to begin with. She had always been the perfect lady, the daughter that every adult adored and every girl wished to be. Hearing her being spoken of in such a negative way was not something he was accustomed to, nor was it something that he wished to grow accustomed to. Just as he turned to address the women, Arya came up from behind him and handed each one a fan for them to take.

“My my, did you see these lovely fans? I purchased one for each of you, I do hope you like it!” she exclaimed, her grey eyes flashing with liveliness as she spoke.

But Jon knew better, for her famous scowl was beginning to form on her lips.

“They will do good to cover those treacherous mouths of yours as you natter lies about my sister and me. Come now _brother_ , I fear they may think we intend to elope if we continue to stay here _alone_ and _unchaperoned_.” Arya snorted, marching past them all without another word.

The women stared at the young man as he bowed his head slightly before departing, mouths agape and eyes so round with shock that they looked as though they had seen a ghost. Jon followed after his sister, his feelings caught somewhere between being proud and conflicted. Robb had always been the one to reprimand Arya when she did something inappropriate, but he was not so sure if he could bring himself to chastise her for defending their family.

As he neared the exit of the market, his attention was caught by a little cart filled with bouquets of flowers of all shapes and colours. The elderly woman who attended to the cart smiled at him as he approached, her face soft with fine laughter lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth. She watched him with her kind green eyes, scrutinising him.

“Good day ma’m.” he said, suddenly feeling rather self-conscious under her observant gaze.

“A little welcome home gift for you, Mr. Stark.” she replied, picking out several flowers from her cart to hold out to him.

Jon looked down, surprised by the familiarity in the woman’s words. She had been the first to address him as a Stark, how he dreamed it would return to those days.  
The flowers she intended to give him were relatively small, their narrow petals falling into a gradient of blue and lavender hues that reminded him of when nightfall was near. He recalled the day he first arrived in the Stark estate, how his sister had stood amidst the field of blue blossoms, with only her autumn hair and pale skin to distinguish her from the sky-like meadow.

“They are asters—sometimes called ‘Little Carlow’—the last batch before winter comes.” the elderly woman pat his hand when she spoke, wrapping a light pink ribbon around the cluster of florets.

“I cannot just take this—“

“Aye, you can Sir. Consider it a favour to and old woman such as myself. I have not seen your face here in years. You were still a green boy when I last saw you.” she smiled, her eyes crinkling as she did.

The Captain took the flowers and bowed deeply, unable to refuse her kindness, “Thank you very much ma’m, I shan’t forget your generosity.” he replied, bidding her goodbye.

Arya had been by the entrance of the village by the time he found her, seated by the stone steps with her face resting between her hands as a sign of boredom. Jon grinned, knowing that the sight rendered him incapable of scolding the girl now. Although she was foul-mouthed, hot-tempered, and horribly tomboyish at times, Arya was still the child that he proudly called his little sister. Pulling a flower from the small bunch in his hand, Jon offered it to the young girl, who stared at his hand as though it held the most preposterous thing she had ever seen. She grinned, taking the package in his arms and holding it tightly against her chest.

“I think I like this gift much more, thank you.”

They departed from the village in their coach, the anger that the dark-haired girl radiated with just two hours earlier seeming to have vanished altogether.

By the time that they had arrived at the Stark estate, their siblings had just begun to break their fast. Jon apologised for their tardiness, presenting Bran and Rickon with a box of treats to help themselves to once they finished their meals.

“What did you go to Ripley for?” asked Sansa, her mouth upturned in a polite smile.

She wore a pastel green undress today, not a hair out of place on her red head. He had never seen her in nightclothes unlike his other siblings, it was strange how his sister managed to treat him with as much warmth as she did with formality. Jon supposed that it was much better than her indifference and formality in the past.

“I got Hessian boots.” Arya grinned, holding up her package with pride as she made her way to her seat next to Rickon.

When the older girl of the two nodded and commented how glad she was for the other, the young man found himself watching the girls’ exchange out of mere fascination.

Over the past few days that he had spent with his family, Arya’s anger towards him had her shunning away her other siblings. While the Sansa that he once knew might not have cared, this one had brought it upon herself to reason with their younger sister regarding her behaviour towards Jon. To finally see Arya being more than civil towards Sansa was something that he had admittedly not witnessed for many years.

Suddenly remembering himself, Jon approached the Lady of the house and offered her the small bouquet in his hand, “I apologise. I am afraid I didn’t know what to get for you, the market offered little and there were no lemon cakes being sold.” he felt like a child offering a ridiculous gift to his sister, perhaps he was.

He looked down to see a startled expression on her face, lips slightly parted with her eyes shifting from the cravat he wore to the light blue and lavender florets he held, “Asters.” she said.

Jon felt the anxiety in him diffuse as soon as she took the flowers into her hands and smiled up at him, “Thank you, Jon.”

It was one of the few times that she truly addressed him by his Christian name.

“You’re welcome.”

 

…

 

Much to the children’s annoyance, Jon’s presence in the Stark estate did not hinder them from seeing their respective tutors after breakfast. Surprisingly enough, it was a routine that he could not help but miss a little, back when life simpler. His father had sent him and Robb to study in Cambridge for a few years, with their stay in North Yorkshire only being during the summer and over Christmas.

While his siblings were engaged in their logic classes and French, his Lady sister was obliged to meet with Mrs. Mordane to sort out the accounts of the estate and disappeared wherever it was that he could not find her.

It bothered the young man to admit that Sansa kept to herself more than she should, as it appeared that she did not ever entertain any guests in their home. In the days that had passed, the Captain mostly busied himself with reading and taking his steed and Ghost for a run across the lands that his brother now owned. After years of constantly being in the company of other men who he worked and trained with, life in Winterfell—though peaceful and comfortable—was slightly lonely without Robb’s presence. Had this been how his three younger siblings were feeling since the death of their father?

With Jon having managed to somewhat right things with Arya for the time being, he decided that he would try his luck and speak to his other sister regarding his and Robb’s concerns. She had been in her parlour when he searched for her along the corridors of the castle, her muffled voice behind the door bidding him to enter after his hesitant knocking. The young man stepped inside, finding that his companion had been tending to the flowers that he had given her just this morning. Sansa set the last of the bouquet into the white vase in her arms, her fingers gently brushing against the light coloured petals as she placed the porcelain object onto the side table by her window seat.

As though the familiarity between them earlier had never existed, she curtsied, to which he bowed in return. Jon could never tell when she viewed him as a brother and when she viewed him as a cousin, their constant shifting from familiar to distant was bewildering to say the least.

“My Lady—”

“I want to thank you again for the flowers, they truly brighten up my parlour don’t you think? It contrasts very well with paisley, it really is too bad that winter is coming. I had not thought to decorate the house with flowers until recently.” she cuts in, shuffling towards the unlit fireplace.

Sansa had always been a perfect lady, but it seemed she was becoming just as talented at feigning that she was an ignorant one as well. The enthusiasm in her tone gave her away, Jon was all too aware of the fact that she was now visibly uncomfortable in his presence.

“Yes, I didn’t think that one could brighten up a room so effectively with such a small ornament. You needn’t worry, winter will end and spring will bring even prettier flowers for you to adorn the castle with. I could take you to the outskirts of the estate tomorrow if you wish; we could go riding and pick the last of the batch before the frost comes.” the Captain plays along, for he admittedly had no idea as to how he will begin their impending discussion.

She had yet to offer him a seat, it was clear that his fair sister did not wish for him to stay in her company for very long. Sansa arranged and rearranged the books on her shelf, never casting so much as a glance his way when she spoke.

“How kind of you, Sir. I accept your offer.” she paused, looking over her shoulder to flash him a meek smile; there was no glint in her eyes when she did so.

“It is true though, spring always brings a wonderful array. I used to go to Ripley with my mother and argue with her that the pink and red flowers were the best choice for our house. I was wrong of course, blue and white always suited our family more—they were true to the Stark image—peace and humility and reverence. She taught me all about flowers and their meanings.” the cheerful tone in her voice had faltered, replaced instead by a saddened one driven by nostalgia.

“Perhaps. Although it did not keep her from purchasing the pink ones for you. How is the Dowager Marchioness?” he asks, finding his opportunity at the sight of his autumn-haired sister’s posture suddenly going rigid.

Her right hand pulls out and pushes back the same book twice upon hearing his question. Sansa straightened up and took another book from the shelf to hold to her chest, making her way past him to seat herself by the window.

“She went to visit Aunt Lysa at the Eyrie, I expect that she is having a lovely time there.” she was feigning nonchalance now, he might have believed her if not for the nervous manner she chewed on her lower lip.

Jon has heard the servants whisper of Catelyn Winterfell’s departure, how they heard her cry herself to sleep each night after her husband’s death and how she refused to eat a few weeks before leaving for the Arryn estate. Despite that he had never been close to his father’s wife, the man knew enough about the woman to suspect that she had not left Winterfell on her own free will. Jon walked towards his sister, standing directly before her so that she would stop avoiding his gaze. Still she refused to look at him, brows furrowed together as she stared down at the faded pages of her book.

"Sansa."

He knelt by her side and gently rested his hand on her arm, steeling himself for the sharp look she cast in his way when he did so. It was too forward of him to touch her, especially because it seemed that she did not view him in the familiar way that their siblings did. But he had to try. She needed to listen.

“Sansa…your mother knew that something was wrong…father’s death wasn’t just some accident—”

“This is ridiculous.” the young woman scoffed, closing her book and folding it over her lap when she looked up to stare at him in a condescending manner that was reminiscent of Arya’s own signature scowl.

“The Lannisters—”

“No—”

“Let me finish!"

Her jaws clenched and she looked away, silent. Jon pursed his lips, he had not meant to raise his voice. The slight flinch in her movement informed him that he was battling the frustration that had been building up since she first started avoiding being alone in his company, and he was losing. It never bothered him before that she ignored him, but it did today; they could not afford to be so distant. There was too much at stake.

"Father—Father was murdered and you know it. That’s why our brother left Winterfell in the first place—he’s been trying to find proof that the Lannisters framed him and had him killed. Your mother must have known, Robb wouldn’t have kept such a thing from her. I know you saw something, you were with him in his last moments. If they hurt you all you need to do is say it--"

"Stop—"

"We’re your family, _don’t shut us out_! Robb told me that you wouldn’t speak a word of it, but if you just trust us—”

“No. No. _No_. I will not tolerate this! Leave this room at once, please.”

His words had pushed her too far, the tears that pooled in her blue eyes and the redness of her nose were enough proof of his careless treatment towards the situation at hand. She bit her lower lip and took a shuddery breath, filling the room with her grief. Shame filled Jon, he had allowed himself to get carried away by his emotions. The heaving of his own chest was only steadied by the realisation that clenched at his heart.

He might have lost the same father as the girl before him, it did not change that he had not been the one to hold the man in his arms as he bled to death. As a soldier he might have preferred to witness it, for his imagination held much worse horrors than reality. But it was thoughtless of him to assume that she would share his sentiments.

Jon opened his mouth to apologise, only to have Sansa stand toe-to-toe with him, her eyes flashed with anger as she tilted her chin up to glare.

“I may not have seen the horrors of war as you have, Captain Targaryen. But I have watched the man who held me as I took my first breath, take his last.” she paused, taking another breath that racks his ribcage as much as it does hers.

It was evident that she was furious and in pain, he wished that he had not been the one to cause it.

“Tell me, have you ever experienced a moment that brought you so much grief, so much pain, that forgetting was the only way to bear it all?” her lips quivered as she whispered, jaws grinding together in the way that Robb’s did when he was upset.

“Yes.”

At that moment, he could not bring himself to lie, not when the young woman’s hair and quiet fury forced him to recall.

_Kissed by fire._

Slowly, she returned to her seat by the window, careful not to look back at him as his eyes remained pressed to her retreating form. The Captain turned away from the young woman to direct himself to the door. With his hand wrapped around the cool surface of the knob, he came to a halt, finding that he could not leave the parlour without making his intentions clear to his sister.

“Consider that we are not doing this just to save father’s name—but yours as well, My Lady.” said Jon, knowing deep in his heart that his subtle plea would do little to move her.

The autumn-haired girl did not meet his gaze, her eyes instead trained on the vase of asters that sat next to her. She stared blankly at the object, hands clasped together in a way that only a perfect lady would do so.

“There is nothing left to save, Captain.”

The man heard no spite in her words nor her tone, which instead carried with it the sound of a young woman’s silent cry of anguish. He bowed in response, gently closing the door behind him when he departed from the room.

For the first time, Jon sees how truly broken Sansa may be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter to be in Sansa's point of view, it will pick up the pace more story-wise.
> 
> terms:  
> Gretna Green - a place in Scotland where couples went to elope  
> *chaperones - a single woman always needed to have another woman (most likely a relative) present when she was in the company of another man  
> *asters - flowers that represents love and patience


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the long wait! This is my longest chapter yet so please bear with me! I do hope it'll be worth my 3 weeks of writing and your 3 weeks of waiting! Love you guys x

_Sansa_

 

Mrs. Mordane and Mr. Cassel emerged in her parlour not long after her brother—no— _cousin_ departed from the room, forcing Sansa to compose herself and discuss matters of the estate with the two elderly servants. It was like playing a game, trying to stay occupied all these months so that she would not wander into the darkest places of her mind. This was much easier said than done, most especially because she had not wanted to socialise with anyone outside of the Stark household since her return from the Baratheon estate.

Once they had sorted out the meal plan for the rest of the day and discussed the servants’ fees and maintenance of the castle, the Lady of the house found that she could barely speak a word without feeling as though she was ready to lose consciousness any minute. So she kept to her quarters after that, pacing around the bedroom as she contemplated on whether or not she should begin a correspondence with the Dowager Marchioness.

_Your mother must have known, Robb wouldn’t have kept such a thing from her._

The young man’s voice repeated to her. It could be true, Robb and their mother shared a bond that was unlike any other that the woman shared with her other children. Despite her reputation for being a fiercely protective and caring parent, Sansa’s mother loved her older brother in such a way that only a first son could be loved. Robb trusted her, he could have told her of his suspicions. Perhaps the matriarch had been so distraught upon hearing of his elopement because he had lost sight of bringing justice to the deceased Marquis’ death.

_Father was murdered and you know it._

No, if it was true that their father’s murder had been planned, her brother would not have lost sight of his priorities. The girl shivered, unable to seat herself by her desk and begin writing to her mother; she mulled over if she would ever find the strength to. Nearly everything reminded her of that day, Lady Winterfell did not make it easy with her stories of falling in love with her deceased husband and insistence on keeping his side of the table set with cutleries. Jon certainly was not helping, not with his grey eyes that pled as he asked for her to speak, not with his hand on her arm as he demanded her honesty.

Not with his face that looked so much like her father’s.

Sansa wondered if she was making it difficult for herself to forget. She should have done away with the deceased Lord Winterfell’s plate set instead of having Jon take the man’s place. She should have gone out and visited her dear old friends as soon as the mourning period was over instead of keeping herself trapped alone with her thoughts.

She should have been trying to forget instead of looking for reasons to stay linked to her past.

Her midday meal was brought up to her room, where she remained until she was called upon for dinner. True to her Stark colours, she wore a muslin half [dress](http://candicehern.com/WP/wp-content/uploads/2014/01/ack0914-001.jpg) that ran pearl from the bodice to her skirt and had whitework sleeves of satin that ended at her wrists. White laced trimmings adorned the ends of her skirt and the curved neckline of her gown, framing her collarbones in a relatively modest fashion. Her appearance was complete with the last of her waves primped into light curls by her maid, Genevieve, who complimented her with a thick french accent that was difficult to clearly understand.

Excusing the servant, Sansa made for the dining room to meet with the rest of her siblings. Instead she saw a room empty of children, with only the servants stationed at their respective places and the object of her distress standing by the window farthest from the entrance. The Captain approached, giving the slightest bow when he stopped a good foot away from her. Her gaze fell on the crème article of clothing he wore, taking note that he had not changed it since this morning.

“Lady Sansa.” he said, the furrow of his dark brows indicative of his unease.

Good. At least the man was perceptive enough to sense that she had a right to be cross with him. She curtsied in return, addressing him coolly by the name that he now went by. Perhaps he was already accustomed to her distance. She hoped that her indifference was a different sort of matter to deal with. Admittedly, she did not like to handle conflict with anger in order to be noticed, even if that may have been exactly how she felt.

Rickon entered the room, interrupting whatever their cousin intended to say to her. She did not mind so much, unsure of whether or not she was ready to hear an apology. Bran and Arya arrived eventually, dressed more elaborately as advised by Old Nan, who stated that their mother’s absence did not mean that they were allowed to misbehave and dress so informally. Their meal went on as it usually did, with her younger siblings conversing animatedly while she injected a remark here and there to make it known that her mind was not dwelling elsewhere. Her cousin on the other hand was significantly more reserved than she was accustomed to, having spoken only once or twice since they ended their thanksgiving prayer to begin dining.

Sansa wished that she had not pondered on his silence as long as she did, for it seemed that fate wished to spite her by having him speak to her. She bitterly regretted having him seated so close.

“I would like to thank you for the cravats, I apologise that I was unable to make my gratitude known earlier this morning.” he said, crossing his cutleries together to indicate that he was finished with his meal.

The Lady turned to meet his gaze, the words easily rolling off her tongue as she spoke, “You’re welcome, I am happy that you are pleased with them.”

She made no other effort to promote their exchange, taking a spoonful of her broth to hold close to her lips and daintily sip at. The strained expression on his face did not go unnoticed. Despite her knowledge that he had been trying to build up towards a proper apology, she would be damned if she allowed him to get away with his behaviour so easily.

If their siblings were aware of the unease between Sansa and Jon, the children did not make it known. Ever since their father’s death, it was evident that hiding their emotions and avoiding confrontation with one another had become a habit. They all loved each other too much to be sincere when faced with negative feelings, they feared losing what little peace they shared even more.

They retired to their bedrooms not long after supper had ended, with Bran thoroughly worn out by his lessons and Arya feigning exhaustion to sneak out to kennel while she still had time. Rickon on the other hand had begged for the Captain’s attention, demanding that he be told a story of the man’s adventures outside of the country. With a reluctant glance cast in Sansa’s direction, he obliged under the condition that the child readied himself for bed time.

The gesture had her breath hitching in her throat, there had been a time when their father liked to compromise with them in the same manner.

The confines of her quarters did little to keep the young woman busy, as she had outgrown the few books that she kept by her bedside and found herself turning more cynical each time she tried to re-read the romance novels she once adored. Her father’s library became a source for reading materials, where Sansa searched through his shelves when she was certain that Bran was not around to catch her. While her brother would not hold it against her for trying to read more sophisticated literature, the young woman preferred to keep her new hobby to herself, providing what little intrigue she needed in her life.

Tonight, she found a companion in Diderot’s _Philosophical Thoughts_.

Sansa had been engrossed in the writer’s arguments against the non-existence of a God when she heard footsteps approaching her room. As soon as the sound stopped before the entrance to her quarters, the lady shoved the book in her hands deep beneath the covers of her bed, intending to feign sleep in hopes of avoiding her supposed visitor. She would be dense to think that it was not Jon who stood on the other side of the door, possibly contemplating as to whether or not he would rap his fist against the hard wood to implore for a word with her. His shadow slipped through the expanse of space beneath the door, still and dark in contrast with the soft yellow light that danced behind.

She lay still for a moment, waiting for him to leave. But the shadow only moved as far as the two sides of the entrance, relentlessly pacing back and forth.

Allowing her impulsiveness to get the best of her, the young woman crept off her bed and tip toed past the canopy, taking note of the shift in her visitor’s movement through the slight creak of the floor. She stood next to the door, feeling her pulse quicken when the man’s shadow grew closer. No knock echoed within her room, no sound of Jon’s voice came when she expected him to speak. Sansa was instead greeted by the sight of a small envelope slipping through where the candlelight of the corridor crept under, the words Lady Sansa written neatly in cursive. She slowly bent down to pick up the letter, cringing at the realisation that the one who wrote it had still been kneeling on the ground, with only the door serving as their barrier. Had he been leaning against it with his palms pressed to the wooden surface? Was he tempted to speak to her through the block between them?

Either he knew her much more than she thought or was moved by the impropriety of the situation, as Jon gave no sign of his awareness that they could be speaking right then and there. He stood and departed from his place outside her quarters, the sound of his footsteps following behind him as it drifted further and further until she could hear nothing but the sound of her own breathing. Sansa held up the envelope and pried it open, slowly treading towards the candles by her bedside to humour her curiosity. She had never received a letter from him before. Surprisingly, he had much neater penmanship than Robb, the letters and sentences so elegantly written that it could have belonged to a poet. There was a saying that a pen could work much like a sword, her cousin was apparently gifted in wielding both.

 

_My Lady,_

_I am afraid that I am not a man of many words, much less one who is particularly good with them. I do not know whether you are reading this upon the instant that I delivered the letter, reading this after you had awoken from a pleasant night’s sleep, or not reading this at all. I can only hope that you have granted such a kindness to me when I do not deserve such._

_I apologise for my behaviour earlier this morning. There are not enough words in this world that can express the guilt I feel for disrespecting you of all people, who has made my return to Winterfell as pleasant and welcoming as possible. Your words to me on my first night home will always have a place in my heart._

_With regards to the appointment we had initially arranged for tomorrow, I understand if you choose to decline my invitation; it is I who owes you much. I shall do all that I can to make amends for my folly, my Lady. Please do not think me insincere for expressing my apologies through this letter, for I could not suppress my contriteness any longer._

_sincerely,_  
_Jon_

Having read the letter several times over, Sansa’s lids grew heavy when she lay back on the mattress, thoroughly worn out. Her once-brother was never quite as emotional as Robb, albeit brooding, he always kept to himself when it came to expressing what he felt. At least, that was the impression he had given her. She did not have the luxury of knowing, her pig-headedness had made sure of that. To see him as frustrated as he had been this morning had caught her off-guard. There had been a time when they were siblings, did Jon not have the right to show her a glimpse of his vulnerability as he urged her to trust him?

He too had lost a father, the only parent that he had ever known all his life.

Although they were never are close as he was with Arya and their other brothers, perhaps Sansa owed it to the young Captain to at least forgive him for losing his composure. He may have wronged her today—unintentionally at that—but she had spent much of her life intentionally wronging him and treating him as though he was not truly family. Blinking back the exasperated tears that threatened to expose themselves, the red-haired girl turned over and burrowed her face into the softness of her pillow.

Sleep would be the only thing to grant her solace tonight, as everything else rarely did.

 

…

 

Incredulity flickered in his eyes when she spoke of riding as far as the borders of Winterfell to overlook the rest of North Yorkshire. A smirk made its way onto Sansa’s lips, she had done her best to replace it with a smile as soon as she caught herself behaving so condescendingly. Her cousin intended on compensating for his ill behaviour the day before, so the Lady of the house would give the young man the privilege to at least try.

With their younger siblings having gone to the family library with their respective tutors, the two of them had been on their way out of the dining room when she brought up the topic of leaving the castle for their little trip. It would be better for the others, particularly Arya, not to know. The children were rarely allowed to go out riding, what with Bran’s crippled leg and Arya and Rickon’s wildness. She did not want to raise their hopes with what would probably be a one time experience. Their father always took them out with the horses; Robb tried to fill that role for a time after the man’s death, but he too had been battling his own grief.

“It would be an honour, my Lady.” said Jon, bowing his head in gratitude.

Sansa nodded in reply, excusing herself to her chambers so that she may change into proper riding attire. Her hair had been neatly arranged into a bun, tied together with a dark ribbon to match with her olive habits. She buttoned her jacket and slipped on her leather gloves, having sent out Genevieve to see to it that her mount was prepared. Staring at her reflection in the glass, the young woman carefully adjusted her cuffs before finding contentment with her appearance and exiting her bedroom to meet with her riding companion.

Jon wore the same pantaloons, waist coat and shirt, having changed only into a tailcoat of wool and dark Hessian boots. Dark colours were a constant, it was clear that fashion was the least of her cousin’s concerns. He refused to wear clothes that called on the attention of others; Sansa always assumed it was simply because he was fashionably inept. It never occurred to her that he was simply a practical individual. Self-consciousness gripped her as he watched her descend from the staircases, it was unusual, how she once revelled in the attention of others but could barely keep herself from looking down on the ground under the gaze of the young man who awaited her. His lips twitched into a smile when she finally stood before him, an unspoken greeting between the two of them.

“I understand that you sent your maid to prepare your mount, but I brought it upon myself to do it. She seemed to fear the poor beast.” he started, walking her down the hall and opening the door that led to gardens and stable.

“Jonquil? But she is such a docile mare…Nonetheless, you have my thanks.” the Captain laughed softly upon hearing the animal’s name, no doubt remembering how romantic and foolish Sansa had been all these years.

Naming a steed after a heroine who lost her virtue to a fool was probably not the wisest decision on her part, but it was most certainly one of the least concerning decisions she had ever made back when she was a stupid girl.

“You needn’t thank me. As you said, she is a docile mare. I reckon she could have been born in the wild and still be a mount worthy of a Lady.”

Their horses stood outside of the stable, Jonquil’s white coat reminiscent of the mythical unicorns that she used to daydream about as a child while Jon’s dark steed remained strong and silent next to her. He approached his mount without hesitation, taking the reigns of the two animals from the grip of the stable boy who bowed and stuttered out a greeting in her presence. Noticing that there was no stool to help her onto Jonquil’s back, Sansa turned to request the stable boy to procure one for her.

“There will be no need for that. Here, allow me.” Jon offered his hand for her to take, silently asking for her approval.

Stunned, Sansa reluctantly took his hand. It was bare, large yet gentle as it encompassed her gloved one. He spoke to her, explaining what he intended to do, though she heard little of what came out of his mouth, her attention still directed at the soft grip of his hand. A small cry escaped her when he lifted her onto her mount, her arm snaking around his neck out of fear of falling on her behind. She flushed, realising how silly she sounded to her own ears.

“I apologise.” she breathed out, shifting awkwardly in an attempt at adjusting her seat on the saddle.

“Think nothing of it. Ah, centre your shoulders and hips over her spine—and keep your left heel down on the stirrup.”

Sansa pursed her lips, ashamed that she could barely recall the basics of horseback riding. Her cheeks heated up twice over upon the realisation that her companion—who likely had never ridden side saddle—knew more of it than she did. Nodding in response, the girl watched as her cousin approached his own steed and mounted the creature with great ease.

They departed not long after, taking on a relatively slow pace to get her accustomed to riding once again. It would be of little surprise if Jonquil hated Sansa, for Sansa rarely ever stopped to see the mare whenever she walked past the stables to visit Ghost. Silence had been their supposed chaperone during the ride, with Jon only ever speaking to direct Sansa where their intended destination was.

Before them was a field of flowers, their cool colours a kind sight beneath the glare of the morning sun. Sansa looked to Jon, oblivious to the lingering gaze he had sent her way when they first beheld the calming scenery. That gentle smile of his found its way to his lips once again when their eyes met, forcing her to return it with a rather half-hearted one. The stream ran so far it could have been touching the horizon itself, she wondered if her companion would allow it if she asked for them to go as far as that.

“Would you like to pick the flowers here?” he asked, pulling at the reigns of his steed to swerve closer to Jonquil.

Jon unmounted quickly after she nodded, whispering words into the horse’s ears before loosening the belts of her saddle, “Put your hands on my shoulders.”

The Lady followed as instructed and steadied herself as he took her into his arms and pulled her from Jonquil’s back. When her feet touched the ground, she stood as tall as him, if not taller in the heels of her riding boots. The soil sank slightly beneath the soles of her shoes, prompting the young woman to remove her hands from his person and take a step away to soften her solid footing.

“Thank you.” she said, smoothing the light wrinkles that formed on her skirt.

The Captain looked away and nodded, taking the reigns of Jonquil and pulling the horse along with his own.

He was trying, she knew, but it was much easier said than done to mend things with a person you have wronged; it did not help that he was a man of few words. And he had always been a good child, Jon rarely gave cause for their father and any other household member to reprimand him. To be aware of his misbehaviour must not have been an easy experience for him.

 _If one has wronged you, it is the perfect opportunity to show that you are as much a woman of grace as you are a woman of mercy. Show them that they are forgiven, it is only then that you truly_ own _them._

“Do you remember when father used to take us riding to the little cottage by the dales of Ingleborough?”

The memory of those times was as clear in her mind as though it had just been yesterday. By the twinkle in his eyes, Sansa had been under the impression that it was the same for her cousin as well. His head dropped down, but the smile on his face finally appeared to be genuine; the waves of his dark hair brushed against his forehead when he looked back up to meet her gaze, obscuring the widow’s peak that never failed to garner her attention.

“How could I forget? You always insisted on riding father’s mount with him instead of the filly he had given you. And we always had to leave before sunset because you were frightened of nighttime.” Jon replied, taking a step towards her, the sardonic tone he used surprisingly makes a grin form on her face.

Although she had not completely forgiven him, she could not help but be pleased by his jesting. He never quite teased her as they grew apart early on, it was always a gesture that was reserved for Robb and their other siblings.

“Yes, well there are more daunting things in this world than nighttime.”

She regretted saying the words as soon as they had rolled off her tongue, cursing herself for picking at wound that Jon would try to fuss over and tend to himself if it bled. To look him in the eye meant to risk seeing pity in them, something that she did not want nor need. So she began to scan the field of flowers instead, busying herself with choosing which blossom to pick. Her companion sighed, following after her with their mounts in tow.

“I would suggest picking the taller flowers, it would be much easier to trim them according the vases back in the castle.”

Sansa glanced to see Jon plucking a tall floret from the ground, holding it by its thick green stem as he examined the specimen, “Why thank you for your words of expertise Sir, I shall keep that in mind.” The Captain smiled upon her sarcastic remark, handing her the flower in his hand to add to the bunch that she had already picked.

They continued their task in a pleasant mood, chattering on about inconsequential things such as the upcoming winter and Bran’s studies. Their siblings served as the bulk of their conversation, with Sansa recounting instances of the silly things Rickon would do or Arya’s rebelling while Jon listened intently and laughed in good humour. Their great love for their family and home was something they easily shared. With two years’ worth of their family’s happiness that he had missed out on, it was not so difficult for the young woman to think of stories to tell. Her tales never touched on the time surrounding her trip from Winterfell with their father; although she was sure that her took notice of this, he did not to ask.

It was only when she approached him after having gathered all the flowers she could that he spoke of anything minutely related to what she feared. Jon’s lips pressed in a grim line, brows furrowed together until they formed a crease above the bridge of his nose.

“Sansa, you must know that I deeply regret how I behaved towards you yesterday. I would take it back in an instant if I could.” the candour in his eyes was clear, and she knew that doing anything but to forgive him was near impossible.

“You are not the only one who must apologise…” she started, her cheeks flushing as she spoke. Expressing herself had become much more difficult than she expected, “You were not so awful to me yesterday as I have been to you all these years. I never considered how cruel I was until you were in Spain; I had hoped for a chance to express my guilt to you the moment I realised it.”

“There is nothing to forgive.” he replied, shaking his head.

“Forgive me.” demanded the red-haired girl, taking Jonquil’s reigns from her cousin’s grip in insistence. Slightly humoured, a meek smile spread on his face, causing her own to form on her previously frowning lips.

“Alright I forgive you, but only if you forgive me as well.”

“That is settled then.” she nodded, handing the reigns back to him to walk to the steed’s side and secure the bouquet of wildflowers into the carrier bag she had brought with her.

She bit back a yelp that threatened to make its way from her throat when Jon’s hands made their way to her waist and lifted her onto her mount, though she did not hesitate to admonish her companion for giving no warning. A contrite apology came in the form of the man bowing his head in response, doing next to nothing to inspire forgiveness from Sansa.

Their return to the castle was significantly shorter despite travelling uphill, as they had picked up some speed with what little confidence the girl had gained from their departure for the outskirts of the estate. Having learned from earlier in the morning, the stable boy had prepared a stool for Sansa to use as she dismounted, his attentiveness rewarded with a grateful smile on his mistress’ part.

“Thank you…for taking me out to see the estate. I had forgotten how beautiful Winterfell is.” said Sansa, her arms gently cradling the large bouquet that had been split between her and Jon, who insisted on helping her carry the flowers.

“You are most welcome, there is much of North Yorkshire that I intend to revisit. A near three years away from here has blurred my memories of the county.” he replied, opening the entrance door for her to pass through.

“If you are interested in seeing more, it would be pleasant to have some company besides Ghost.”

The young woman’s walking came to a halt, changing her direction to look at her cousin, olive skirt twirling around her when she did so. In all honesty, it had been the first time that anyone had truly made an effort to request for her company since the Marquis’ death. The idea that it had been Jon, to whom she had been so horrible, who sought her out once again was startling.

Suspicion crept in her mind, but her heart ached to accept his offer.

 

…

 

The weeks that passed were significantly more pleasant in spite of the growing cold, only a Stark could truly thrive in the winter. From time to time, Jon invited Sansa to accompany him when he ventured out of the estate on his steed, occasionally bringing Ghost along when the destination was not too far off. It became a pastime that the young woman admittedly looked forward to throughout the week, constantly wondering how much adventure they could fit within the day without being gone for too long.

In spite of his reserved nature, the man who was once her brother did not make it difficult for her to converse with him. Although they were not as close as he was to Arya, with whom he spent much of his afternoons with at the kennel or practise yard, the distance between them was gradually lessening. Their chats ranged from his misadventures with Robb to her tedious duties as the current Lady of the house, general small talk that rendered them content with the respect they had for one another’s privacy. There were now days when Arya and the two boys accompanied them, never failing to bring their boisterous behaviour along as well. Sansa never failed to feel a step behind as she watched Jon play with their siblings, as though they all shared secret that she was oblivious to.

_But you have secrets of your own._

A rapping noise came at her door in the early hours of the morning, prompting Sansa to open her tired eyes and peel off the piles of comforters she had curled under for warmth. She caught a glimpse of herself in the glass, much too exhausted from her duties the day before to be bothered by her disheveled appearance.

It had been Mrs. Mordane, her face strained as she curtsied and lifted up the item in her hand, “’Tis from Lord Winterfell.” she said, clasping her hands tightly together as she spoke.

Anxiety pulsed through the young woman’s veins, and she found that she could barely nod in response to the elderly servant’s words. She closed the door when she moved to seat herself by the window, blood curdling with anticipation. A good deal of time had passed since their last correspondence; it was clear that Jon’s coming home had rendered the eldest Stark more at ease with his time away from the family. Her hands shook as she lowered the letter to her lap upon reading the words Robb had written.

The Marquis was coming home.

Sansa had not realised how troubled she was by her older brother’s letter until she was forced to face her siblings during breakfast, which was to say, speaking was nearly impossible.

“Are you alright, Sansa?” she looked up from her plate to see concern written on Arya’s face, an expression that apparently mirrored that of their brothers’ as well.

She could only nod and smile in return, explaining that she had not slept well. Unconvinced, her sister pursed her lips and went on to continue her conversation with Bran regarding Summer and Nymeria’s little brawl the day before.

“I fear that the weather may turn out for the worst today, the wind is much too still.” said Jon, his dark brows furrowed together in a way that reminded her of their father.

He always looked most like their father when he was weary. It was ironic how the man who looked the most Stark among the deceased Marquis’ children was not of his seed at all.

“Nonsense the sun is shining outside and the last snowfall occurred four days ago, don’t fret too much.” the lightness of her tone succeeded in easing the young man’s uncertainty, as he made no more comment on postponing their plans for the day.

When breakfast was completed, they rode for the dales of Ingleborough. Sansa donned a simple dark dress, coat, and socks over her stockings, her red hair arranged in a simple braid that pooled within the hood of her cloak. After several occasions in which she was inconvenienced by the intricacy of her attire, Jon had suggested that she wear more comfortable clothes to ride in. Peering at her brother as their mounts galloped side by side, she nearly remarked how their dark clothed and fur lined attire reminded her of her own parents, but argued with herself against doing so. She mentally admonished herself for such a queer thought, remembering Mrs. Mordane’s words to her before she exited the castle to meet Jon by the stables.

_Will you not bring a chaperone, my Lady?_

It was an absurd question to ask, so much so that the girl could only respond to the question with a smile and a curtsey to see herself off. Robb would not have asked her such a thing, he would have joined them and told his side of the stories that Jon shared with her. Perhaps they could do so when he returned, he could even bring his wife along.

It would never be the same though, and the suspicion she felt all those weeks ago towards the man that was once her brother began to resurface in her mind.

_They can’t know._

The dales looked different from how she remembered…less wild. It had become a calming sight to behold. There was not much green left since the arrival of winter, leaving a thick sheet of white to cover the rolling hills and slabs of stone that protruded from the ground. Not far from where she stood was the little cottage she recalled, bearing the weariness of time on its stone walls and thatched roof. But it was here, and the memories she harboured of the place—though quite few—kept her anchored to it, a hazy cross between the past and the present.

Sansa could still see Robb and Jon running along the field; how small they were then, as she too had been. They laughed and bickered as always, flying the kites that father had purchase for them. Two little boys, one with bright blue Tully eyes and the other with the deep grey of a Stark. She could see herself as well, clinging onto her father as he balanced her tiny form on his hips. His voice was still clear in her mind, teaching her how to spot shapes of animals and objects that the clouds formed with their great cotton-like bodies.

Pulling on Jonquil’s reigns to urge the mare forward, the young woman glanced over her shoulder to exchange a smile with her escort as he followed behind. She stopped before the shed at the front of the cottage and carefully dismounted, unable to help herself from casting a triumphant smirk in her brother’s way. It was difficult at first to learn how to remove herself from her horse’s back, but observing Jon had helped her accomplish it well enough, save for the infrequent stumbling and landing on her hind. He shook his head and grinned back, slipping off his mount to walk next to her. She watched as he knotted the animal’s reigns around the wooden rails that surrounded shed, following in suit with Jonquil.

“I can’t imagine why you would want to come to this place, it’s in near ruins.” he remarked, rubbing his gloved hands together and shoving them into the pockets of his coat.

“Well it wasn’t exactly homey back when we were children either. It is abandoned for a reason.”

Jon slowly pushed the entrance door for fear it would suddenly snap; assured by its sturdiness, he moved aside to give her leeway to pass through. The furnace remained untouched, with a small stack of firewood at the corner of the room, it was apparent that they were not the only ones who liked to visit. When Sansa moved to seat herself on the stool by the window, her efforts were halted by her companion, who picked up the object to test its strength before placing it closer to her on the ground.

“Ah, um. Here. I will see if I can set up the fire.”

“Let me help.” she insisted, setting aside the stool to approach.

“No it’s fine, I wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

The huff that escaped her lips caught the young man off guard, prompting him to look up from where he knelt to address her. “Don’t be foolish. Contrary to what you may think, I do know how to start a flame without a matchstick.” she did not forget to smile, for Jon never failed to soften up when anyone did, most especially Rickon.

While hers was not as sincere as their younger brother’s, it appeared that the gesture itself was enough.

So he watched her as she worked, offering assistance several times before she finally succeeded in catching a spark. He kept himself busy by searching around the cottage to look for a place to hang their cloaks, eventually dragging a small table to place their cloaks on by the fire. Sansa gently blew at the flame, carefully inserting more wood into the furnace until it was large enough to sit a few feet away from. Though they had been alone, the two spoke in hushed tones, voices softly echoing within the confines of the cottage until the sound of the rain finally overpowered them.

“By jove, it’s starting to pour harder.” muttered Jon, a confounded look plastered on his Stark features. They peered outside of the cottage window, greeted by the ashen clouds that relieved themselves over the white dales.

The girl winced, recalling how he had been reluctant to leave the estate earlier, “I apologise, if I hadn’t insisted on coming here we wouldn’t be stranded…at least we can be thankful that it isn’t a snow storm?” Her brother chuckled lightly, the corners of his eyes wrinkled with laughter lines.

Perhaps he did not look most like her father when he was weary.

As though he read her mind, Jon cleared his throat and began to stare into the fire, the glow of the red flames flickered against the profile of his face. He opened his mouth to speak, only for his lips to press together in a thin line. Sansa straightened her posture from where she sat, the hairs on her arms and neck prickled against her skin like a warning.

“I miss him.” he whispered, hands clenched into fists that pressed against the ground beneath them.

Eddard Stark would forever linger in Jon’s mind, how could he not? To blame him for yearning for his father was cruel, but the mere thought of the deceased patriarch had her old wounds bleeding anew, singing to be torn open and beaten at with memories of hateful words and painful laments. She lowered her gaze to the fire, gnashing her teeth together for fear that she would speak out of turn. The voices were coming back, rough and cruel as they grated at her ears and mind. Her fingers twitched within their gloves, numb to the movement that she willed of it.

_Please, stop._

“It is ironic, how I joined the war to make father proud and prove that I wasn’t just a bastard who was at his mercy. And he was gone before I even returned…just… _gone._ Then a man I barely knew—a man who had abandoned my mother—decided that I was worthy enough to claim as his son.”

_Stop._

A whimper escaped her, and not for the first time, she felt shame for the one thing she could never escape from: her weakness. Her brother turned to her then, his lips slightly parted as he registered the tears that streamed from her eyes. She stood up and retreated when he moved towards her, pulling her arms to her chest like an injured animal.

“Do you want me to feel pity for you? Is that it?” the Stark girl asked, unable to discern her companion’s expression through her tears.

She sees him again, his large and weary form lying on her lap as she pleaded for him to wake up. The blood was there too, staining the perfect white of her muslin dress, staining her bruised skin. Deep set eyes stared blankly up at her, lacking the life that dwelled in the ones that held her gaze now.

“Sansa, I—”

“I will not be baited into doing what you and Robb want. I am tired, Jon. I am tired of going to sleep and seeing father in my dreams. I am tired of hearing my own screams within my own head. I am _tired_ of living this way!” having cried out unintentionally, she held a hand to her lips when her soft sobs began to rack her body.

Sansa stormed out of the cottage before her brother could speak, uncaring of the rain that pelted against her face as she darted towards Jonquil to undo the knots of the mount’s reigns. Jon called after her, his voice faint against the thunderous pouring of the storm. Her hands shook from the cold when she furiously adjusted the buckles of her saddle, ignorant of the animal’s growing unease. Jonquil nervously nickered and pounded her hooves on the slosh of snow and mud as the red-haired girl struggled to pull herself onto her mare’s back, the animal swayed her head from side to side as if to tell her mistress that she was agitated. But Sansa could only wipe her tears as she attempted to hurry her flight from the cottage, leaning away whenever Jonquil jerked.

“Sansa, stop!”

A pair of hands grabbed her by the waist and hauled her to safety as soon as the mare’s reigns came loose. The beast cried loudly as it raised its front legs from the ground and raced into the dales, its white form disappearing as it galloped further away. Jon’s arms turned her around and enveloped her when she could no longer control the wails that broke through her, her voice loud and cracked each time she breathed out.

All resolve to push the man away ceased, Sansa’s mind could only continue replaying her father’s death until she wept with a force that could rival the gale accompanying the torrents of rain. His warm hand rest on the back of her neck and pulled her closer with the other encircled around her shoulders. She nestled her face at the crook of his neck and grasped him by the collar of his shirt, muffling her keens with the drenched wool of his coat. Her tongue could taste the sweetness of the storm that mixed with the salt of her tears. If there was ever a time when she had little to cry about, it had long been replaced with the reality of her misfortune.

“We need to get inside.” his voice was faint, so faint that she could have easily been deaf to it if he had not been holding her.

Images of her father began to fade, only snow, mud, and rain surrounded them now. In her father’s place stood Jon, his expression one of sympathy and guilt as he returned her hollow stare. Carefully, he guided her back into the cottage, pulling her with him towards the warmth of the hearth. When she refused to sit on the stool, he sank down onto the ground with her. He sat to her left, allowing her to rest her head against him when she sniffled and tried to steady her breathing. Sansa flinched when he withdrew his arm from around her; she did not realise how cold she was until the feel of her drenched hair and sopping wet clothes had her body shivering uncontrollably.

“Remove your coat, you’ll catch a fever if you don’t dry up. We can track your mare once the storm recedes.” stated Jon, taking their cloaks from the dusty table they had laid it on earlier.

Having ceased her weeping, she obeyed, timidly peeling off her jacket only to feel more of the freezing air engulf her body. He wrapped her cloak around her immediately, followed by his own which was much warmer and larger.

“What about you?” she asked, her voice faltering as he returned to his place next to her and removed his own wet coat.

“I will live.”

The red-haired girl shook her head, reaching out her hand to rest on his soaked shirtsleeve, “N-no. Share it with me. Please.” she beseeched him, kindly rubbing her thumb along the inner part of his wrist, now cold from the rain.

Her brother sighed softly, moving closer so that she would be able to drape the two cloaks over their frigid bodies. Sansa closed her eyes, inhaling the scent of the rain and firewood; she could smell Jon’s scent as well. The scent of trees, leather, and musk. She was weary to the bone, wishing that she could sleep and never wake up to another day with the memories that she harboured in her mind. The silence stretched on, all that passed between them was the sound of their steady breathing.

“They shot our coachmen first…and then they opened the door and forced us out.”

His hand suddenly found hers, encompassing it as though he held a treasured heirloom, tightly. Sansa’s vision began to blur, making the fire before her look like melted gold.

“They shot father as soon as we were on our knees. I can still hear their laughter when they did. Five loud pops that had him sprawled all over the ground. They made me look—” she choked, recalling the smell of gunpowder when one of the men held her chin in an iron grip.

“He was still alive at that time, and—and he was looking at me. I-I tried screaming for help, but they struck me so hard that I could barely see.”

“Sansa, I don’t want you to—”

“But I saw it when they slit his throat.” she continued, digging her nails into the flesh of his warm hand.

“It was so fast that I could hardly believe it happened…I remember crawling towards him. There was so much blood. I can still feel their dirty hands on me. They told me they were going to rape me and leave me there to die. And I prayed, _I prayed so hard_. Perhaps only reason they didn’t was because one of them kept saying that they had to get those damned diamonds. Then they left as soon as they found it, talking about how they could sell it to the highest bidder.”

Sansa stopped, taking a breath to compose herself. The tears would not cease, her eyes so sore that she would not have been surprised if it was blood that leaked from them. Between the pain in her head and the pain in her chest, only her companion’s hand served to keep her tethered to the real world.

“By the time the Lannister’s men found me, his skin had gone blue and his blood was darker than the autumn leaves around us. Lord Casterly welcomed me back to the Baratheon estate and told me that I would be well cared for in their hands, as if my pain could keep his family from hurting me. The Duchess and her son mocked me; they called my father a thief and traitor who had brought ruin upon our family. The man I once thought would be my beloved Lord husband beat me when he thought no one was looking. But everyone was, everyone knew and no one _cared_.”

She looked down at her lap, remembering the feel of her father’s head on it. Whatever words she had said to him had gone unheard; he had died long before she was released from the cruel hold of his murderers.

“I didn’t even get to tell him that I loved him…when mother and Robb finally came for me, I tried to be better. I tried to be the daughter that father deserved. Then Robb left before the mourning period was even complete and mother would neither leave her room nor speak to us.”

There was no blood on her dress now, not like that day. All she held was Jon’s own hand as he moved his thumb along the length of her index finger, drawing soothing circles on the back of her hand. As a child she once noticed her father do the same to her mother when they attended her grandfather’s funeral. Her weeping resumed then, inaudible when she pulled her legs to her chest and buried her face in the space between her knees.

“I had to _send_ my own mother away.”

Jon brought his arm to encircle her waist and pulled her so close, close enough that she could have lifted her legs over his and curled up on his lap like a child would their father. But Ned Stark was dead, and the young man next to her—though he resembled the departed Marquis—could never fill the hole in her heart that her father once occupied.

“She was breaking you see, and I couldn’t be the one to piece her back together…not when I was broken too.”

The girl raised her head to meet the gaze of her brother then, feeling her lips tremble when his hand moved to cup her wet chin. His eyes were grey and sad, causing a part of her to regret speaking at all. Jon had suffered too, and a person could only bear so much pain on their shoulders before breaking.

She did not want him to be broken like her.

“You are here today, Sansa. And it means that you are strong. Father would have been proud.”

There were no words of consolation, no prying questions as to what extent she had experienced the tortures of the Lannisters and Joffrey; there were only his words of reassurance. Gentle to her ears, his voice was deep and soothing against the clapping sounds of the storm. She had not forgotten the way his angered tone sounded several weeks ago in her parlour. It was something she would never forget, one among the many voices that would haunt her for her cowardice and weakness.

But she would also never forget the pleading in it, the touch of his hand to her arm, the way it remained tender.

It was peculiar—how she knew even then that he would never hurt her.

Sansa allowed a sob to escape her one last time, wrapping her arms around Jon’s neck as he pressed her against his chest. They disregarded the discomfort that their wet clothes brought upon them, instead they revelled in the warmth of their embrace.

Just for that one morning, she remembered what it felt like to be safe from her own fears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> terms:  
> habits - basically attire/clothes, usually associated with horseback riding  
> side saddle - a riding style specific to women  
> *Women weren't allowed to pursue intellectual accomplishments, which was why Sansa kept her taking of books from her father's library a secret  
> *Ingleborough Dales is a real place, I'm not 100% sure if there's an abandoned cottage there (so it's just a figment of my imagination)
> 
> side note: if you noticed that Sansa is constantly shifting between calling Jon her cousin and brother, it's 100% intentional


	6. Chapter 6

_Jon_

 

“Married?! But—how?”

No smiles were drawn on the faces of the three youngest Starks, though truly anything other than shock and possible anger would be absurd to hope for. Bran lowered his cutleries, mouth agape when he could no longer string his words together. The blue of his pupils were smaller, face pale and lips pressed in a thin line to make his disbelief known, it was an expression that Robb often wore whenever he and Theon Greyjoy got caught for the pranks they used to pull on Mrs. Mordane as children. Jon always watched from the sidelines in those days, afraid that misconduct on his part would garner the unwanted attention of Lady Winterfell. He supposed that it was entertaining enough to observe and join them in their more behaved activities, respectful of his brother’s bond with the Greyjoy heir.

A pause of silence followed. The young man steeled himself from the urge to glance over at his red-haired sister and silently offer to speak on her behalf, aware of the disquiet in her seemingly calm demeanour. It had become less taxing to identify her sincerity in expressing her feelings since their morning in the dales. But he could not speak for her, it was not in his place.

“Is she pretty like mama?” asked Rickon, his small voice echoed along the large expanse of the dining room. All heads turned to him, his eyes wide with curiosity.

Sansa smiled; there was no sincerity in the gesture, only sadness at the mention of the absent Dowager Marchioness, “Robb wrote that she is a fine woman, although I wouldn’t expect any less from our brother. I am certain that we’ll love her. Jon said so himself, isn’t that right Jon?”

“Yes, I had the pleasure of being in her company for a day or two. She’ll fit right in.” he nodded, grinning in his youngest brother’s way to reassure the copper haired child.

Content with their response, the boy returned to his meal. Relief flooded through Jon, a sentiment that he was certain his fair sister shared with him, as her gaze was no longer concerned with Rickon. Her blue eyes were trained on Arya, who busied herself with the food on her plate, particularly measured in the ways she brought the fork to her mouth and chewed on her steak. Bran cleared his throat, the sound of his foot nudging Arya’s filled the stillness of the room.

The dark-haired girl glared, eyes so round and wide that her younger brother was quick to recoil and resume eating his meal, “So how long have you known that Robb had married?” there was an air of nonchalance in her question, head completely turned in Sansa’s direction.

A near three years had passed since his departure from Winterfell, but if there was anything that he was more certain of than the layout of the Stark estate, it was Arya. She had changed, and while she was still hot-tempered and childish to a fault, it was not difficult for Jon to recognise that his dearest sibling was attempting to use Sansa’s own gift against her, albeit Arya used it as a means of offence rather than defence.

“I—well—not for very long.” the lady’s vague response only served to raise her younger sister’s brow, something that would not go unnoticed by little Rickon or even the servants that waited on them.

“Ah, though I’m sure you and mother knew much longer than the rest of us. Speaking of mother, do you know if she’ll be home to celebrate Christmas with us?”

The faint smile on Sansa’s face disappeared; the lids of her eyes lowered until thick lashes brushed against fine cheekbones, “No, I’m afraid not.”

Baiting, Arya loved to do that when they were children, a habit that she had yet to outgrow with age. It started with little things, like waving her dirty slipper near her siblings’ faces or nearing her finger to a pile of manure when Mrs. Mordane warned her not to. While Jon usually took it in stride and found humour in her impish behaviour, a part of him felt his affection for his little sister warring with a prick of annoyance.

Thankful that he had managed to swallow his wine before hearing the girl’s words, he cleared his throat, meaning to speak up and diffuse the tension that was clearly growing between the girls, “It’s likely that Robb will be home by the first week of December, we should probably prepare a wedding present of some sorts for him and his wife don’t you think?”

“Does that mean we can all go to town?” Bran beamed, evidently attempting to make the most of the situation at hand.

The Captain spared at glance towards his hostess, knowing well that he held no authority over the children; the departure of the Dowager Marchioness left her daughter to bear much of the responsibilities intended for a mother. The upward twitch of her lips was enough confirmation for him to agree with his little brother’s hopeful statement.

Besides their private discussion regarding Robb’s return with his bride, few words had been exchanged since their time in the abandoned cottage two days before. Ironically, they continued to remain in one another’s company more than necessary, having come to an understanding that the silence they shared was not as intolerable as they feared it would be. Mornings returned to being devoted to Sansa’s work and Jon’s riding, followed by afternoons with the children and sparring sessions with Arya. Late night tea time had become their latest endeavour, when their younger siblings were settled in their beds and fast asleep, allowing them to speak of private affairs that concerned their eldest brother and other familial obligations.

He could still feel her shivers as they made haste from the dales, forehead pressed against his back and arms encircling his waist to keep herself anchored on the mount. All he could think of at that time was how much of an arse he had been, though it had never been his intention to hurt Sansa. Since his return to the estate, he had seen her be nothing but strong in the face of acting as the family matriarch. Though it was expected in light of everything that had happened over the past years, Jon was not prepared to receive his sister in all her vulnerability. He wished that Robb had been there to hold her instead; their brother would have known what to say, which way to hold her close and stroke her hair. In comparison to that, a bastard half-brother who was just a cousin in reality was a sorely poor substitute.

Even when her crying had ceased along with the thunderstorm, he would not release her hand as he led her to his horse, he could not. The mere thought of seeing her reduced to tears unsettled the man more than the gawping looks that were cast in his way when the stable boy and servants first caught sight of them sharing his mount, their Lady sporting the Captain’s heavy cloak on her slumped shoulders. Such a scenario should have been expected, as Jonquil had reached the estate much earlier than the two companions did. Not even Mrs. Mordane’s tight expression could dissuade him from taking Sansa by the waist to deposit her onto the ground and guide her into the castle himself. Whoever watched Jon would either deduce that he was either stupidly naive or a rogue in the making. Having known him since he was a mere child, the household could only deduce that he was as dense as he was pleasant to the eyes.

Her chambermaid rushed to her side upon their entrance to the main hall, the French girl’s eyes wide with concern for her mistress. Before joining the servant up the staircases, her cold hand twitched in his own ever so slightly, followed by the very absence of her. Perhaps it was what any other individual would perceive it to be—a temporary goodbye—but Jon could hear his and her own voices in his head as their fingers disentangled.

 _Stay._ She pleaded.

He tilted his chin down when Sansa walked away, his drenched cloak dragging behind her as the distance between them grew larger with each step she took. Silently, he promised the young woman that he would help her shoulder whatever pain and responsibility she undertook for however long she would allow him.

 

...

 

With the impending arrival of the Marquis and his bride, the Lady of the house was more than preoccupied with the preparations to be made, even more so due to its closeness to Christmastide. Jon sought to provide whatever services he could to Sansa, ranging from discussing concerns about the estate’s maintenance and finances with Mr. Cassel to the wolves’ care with the younger Mr. Cassel. Unfortunately his sister took little notice to such efforts, politely declining his offers and claiming that he should not be concerning himself with such inconsequential things. But she never forgot to thank him for his solicitude, and it served as encouragement to persist in trying to assist the young woman. So he spent his time entertaining Arya and the two boys, acutely aware of his grey-eyed sister’s not so subtle hostility towards the other since the announcement of Robb’s return.

The weather had been cooperative today, with minimal snowfall and the sun shining bright above the cloudless sky; Bran and Rickon had been so delighted about it that Sansa had rescheduled their classes with their tutors and had Jon take them out to the Dales. By the afternoon, he sat on a stool at the corner of the entrance of the stables, eyes trained on the tense form of his favourite sibling as she raised her right arm to take a shot at the target. If not for the subtle emergence of curves on her hips and increased height, the determined look on her face could cast him back to a time when it seemed that they only ever needed each other to feel so content, the two outsiders of House Stark.

“Your elbow is too high.”

There was a slight flutter to her scarf and skirts when she whirled around, glaring so pointedly at him that one would think she had sharp arrows for eyes rather than the large, round ones that she possessed.

“I know that.” the girl snapped, brows pinched together in such familiar indignation.

The features of her long face did not soften when she looked to the target once more, and Jon found himself wondering whether she imagined his head to be plastered at the centre of it when she made her shot. It was strange to be object of Arya’s anger as often as he has been since his return, for he had never realised just how volatile his sister could be until now.

The Captain got up to approach the target and remove the arrow, only to witness the next one glide over his shoulder and straight to the Gold. Jon looked back to gouge the dark-haired girl’s reaction, unsurprised to see the pure glee at her new feat, the hairs on the back of his neck still stood pin straight as needles.

“I did that without even looking.” there was a tone of defiance in her voice as she spoke, arms crossed over her chest. The young man thought he could grab the bow from his sister’s hand and destroy it right then and there if he wished to, seeing as he had been the one to gift her with the damned thing.

Jon shook his head and muttered profanities under his breath, yanking the arrows off the target and shoving them back into the quiver Arya had hung on the wall.

“Well then I am glad that our lessons are amounting to something.” it was a half-hearted thing to say, but the young man found himself becoming less and less eager to be in the girl’s company as the minutes passed.

“ _Well_ if you just payed more attention when you spent time with me, maybe you would have noticed that I could shoot targets with my eyes closed over two weeks ago.”

Guilt filled his chest, and suddenly Jon felt all the annoyance that was building up inside him had been knocked out of his body as he lowered himself to sit on the wooden stool, “I apologise, Arya. It’s just that a lot of things have been weighing heavily in my thoughts lately.”

Had he not been wearing his gloves, he would have felt the calluses of his hands, how they were thicker and harder against his face. Jon could almost feel the cuts on his fingertips and palm. As light as they seemed, the meaning they carried were deeply embedded in his body and mind.

As though she were still a child, the girl sat down on the cold floor and rest her hands on his knees, uncaring of how the dirt on the ground would ruin her dress and coat in the usual fashion that she did. She used to rest her forehead on his lap when she was tired from fencing with him, when summer befell them and the dark hair on their heads was soaked with their sweat. Dirt would be smudged on her face—back then filled out with baby fat—and she would tease him for the funny noises he made when he lunged towards her or did a feint. To think about it now made it seem far too long ago.

“You know that you can tell me anything, don’t you Jon?” she asked, mouth no longer twisted in her perennial scowl.

His lack of a reply did little to ease the resentment that Arya had already been harbouring for some time, prompting her to pull away from her brother and take on a rigid bearing. She whispered something as she angrily retreated, earning the Captain’s attention more than he had expected.

“What did you say?”

Arya huffed, fists clenched together when her walking came to a halt, “I said, it doesn’t matter now does it? You probably tell Sansa everything now, I’m sure she _loves_ to listen to all your _Princely_ war stories like a simpering lady at court.”

A part of Jon could not tell what he found to be the most insulting, that Arya felt that he needed to pick between her and her sister, that his status as the biological son of the King was what gave him value, or that Sansa was using him. The Captain proceeded towards her, face flushed with anger. And then he remembered an autumn-haired young woman, with resentment and pain in her blue eyes when he first raised his voice at her. Though the two girls were as different as fire and ice, there was no denying that tackling an argument with Arya in the manner that he had with Sansa would only do harm. Jon did not want to feel that same sort of shame once again.

“I’m not a Prince.” he sighed out, gently placing a hand onto his little sister’s narrow shoulder as he urged her to turn and face him.

There were tears of frustration that gathered in her eyes, but she still scowled like the tempestuous child she was when their eyes met.

In spite of time having become his greatest enemy, bringing about unwelcome change to his life, Jon hoped that the sort comfort he could offer Arya had not. He slung his arm around her and pulled her into a hug, acutely aware of the lack of fight his sister had when he did so. It was pleasing to know that some things never change.

“And—and I urge you not to disrespect your sister after everything that she has been through. If you cannot see that she has changed, then please look harder.”

Arya rest her forehead on his shoulder, the slight feel of her head nodding against him served to satisfy him. There were no explanations needed, and perhaps there were still hundreds of questions in his sister’s dark head that he could not directly address, but they understood each other enough to put some things aside and accept that there were questions she could not ask because he could not answer.

 _This_. This was enough for Arya to know that he would never purposely jeopardise the love they have for each other. They would always be the outsiders of House Stark, but they could not keep everyone else out much longer and vice versa. Their father was gone, and the Starks could not afford to lose each other in the process of grieving.

Their embrace came to an end when Arya pulled away, arms once against crossed together and face no longer distorted by anger, “So when are you going to teach me to master my pistol?”

If she took notice of the tightness in his smile when he laughed, she did not make it known.

“When I think you are ready.” replied Jon, moving to put away her archery equipment so that they could retire indoors.

_Lies._

The groan that escaped her informed the young man that his sister was too caught up in her frustration to question him; he mentally had to counsel himself to remain composed in front of the girl. She followed him away from the practice yard, taking two steps for every one that he made. Jon allowed himself a chuckle, patting Arya gingerly on her head.

“You know, it’s a lot more difficult to give Sansa the benefit of the doubt when she is keeping so many secrets from us. I—I know that she sent mother away because she was getting ill. We could all see it; she was forgetting that we were her children, I reckon it got worse when she found out that Robb eloped.”

Jon’s mouth went dry, momentarily confounded by Arya’s statement. It was foolish to assume that she was completely ignorant to the events that surrounded her. Arya was always good at finding things out; she was like a cat, jumping from shadow to shadow, listening and observing when no one thought that she was.

With a roll of her eyes, Arya stood still and grabbed onto the sleeve of Jon’s winter coat, urging him to stop walking, “Oh don’t be so surprised, Jon. I have been trying to see things Sansa’s way but…I just can’t see how sending mother away could make things better. We need her and she needs us, Jon. She is our mother.”

No, she would not understand. Things like scandal and gossip were of little consequence to Arya, but Sansa knew better. Words are wind, but they carried great strength in them when coupled with the wrong sort of meaning and the worst sort of people to speak them. Their father had died with an ill reputation, one that has already stained his fair cousin—no—sister. If the March were to take notice of the Dowager’s absence in spite of her presence in the estate, then her sickness would have been exposed to everyone. Staying in Winterfell would only have made things worse for Catelyn Stark, with its unforgiving winter and rare days of sun, her health would have declined even more so than it already was.

“I just wish that she would let us have a say in what happens in our family.” Arya whispered, grey-eyes downcast in sorrow.

With a squeeze to the girl’s hand, Jon pulled her along with him to continue their journey back to the castle, “Aye, but she is the Lady of the House while Robb is gone. It would be best that you offer whatever support that you can, she is only trying to do what is best for the family.”

The two siblings no longer spoke as they walked, and a thought crossed his mind regarding Sansa’s secrecy towards the family.

She too was an outsider in her own right.

 

…

 

No more than a day later, Jon found himself observing Sansa as she fussed over their younger siblings and instructed them to be on their best behaviour. Arya bit back her sarcasm for the morning, primly dressed in a bright yellow woollen gown with white lace trimmings and a handsome bonnet over her cap that contrasted with a paisley blue shawl and teal cape. Ever attentive to his eldest sister, Bran kept Rickon anchored to his place so she could comb her fingers through the boy’s wild russet hair in an attempt to tame the thing from developing into a shrub.

Her blue eyes shifted from everyone’s appearance to her own, meticulous in her observation so as to ensure that each of them were a charming sight to behold. In contrast to the bright colours that Arya had been forced to sport, Sansa opted for much more somber colours in what Jon perceived to be an attempt to avoid appearing as a threat to her sister-in-law. It would have done little to keep from intimidating others of course, by her stern countenance and the well recognised fur-lined cloak of the Stark family that she wore, Sansa looked every bit a Lady of the House that she was.

Robb and his bride had finally arrived estate, their coach steadily neared the entrance of the foyer as it circled the front of the country house. It was not garish like the carriage that the family kept near the stables, but it was a sturdy coach that could withstand travelling in nearly any sort of weather, especially through unpaved roads such as the one that stretched between the borders of Scotland and Yorkshire. Although the ride to her new home would not serve as a peek into Jeyne Stark’s new life as the Marchioness of Winterfell, the extravagance of the family seat alone would most certainly compensate for that.

“Your cravat, it needs a little adjusting.” Jon tore his eyes away from his brother’s approaching coach, caught off-guard by how close in proximity his autumn-haired sister had been to him as she began to fix the item of clothing.

It felt peculiar to have her fuss over him in the way that she did with Rickon, but the young man’s heart swelled with warmth from being on the receiving end of Sansa’s kindness once again. Bran grinned at the sight, aware of the flustered pink stain that made its way to Jon’s cheeks. By the look on his face, Jon could tell that the boy was proud to have been deemed spruce in his sister’s eyes.

Just as the coach came to a halt, Jon and Sansa pulled apart, the latter of the two looking quite content with herself as her gaze lingered on the cravat she had given him. Though he did not like to admit it, the pearl coloured silk cloth had become a favoured choice of his. Sansa took her place to his left, resting a hand on Arya’s shoulder to prevent the girl from running into Robb when he and his wife climbed out of their ride.

If there was any reason for Jon to suppress the smile that played on his lips, it was shrouded by the merriment of the Marquis’ coming. It was a smile that extended to his brother’s wife as well, whose modesty and sincerity had shined some light upon the greyer days of his return to England. Robb stepped out first, beaming as he waved at them and stuck his head back into the coach, presumably to speak to the new Marchioness. They stood in silence, the young boys tense with anticipation while the girls were no doubt troubled by what kind of disposition their new sister possessed.

Grey Wind leapt from inside the carrier, sniffing the cold ground and rubbing his dark paws on the dirt so as to familiarise himself with his surroundings. As though sensing the eyes of his master’s family, the wolf trotted towards them, dipping his head down to allow each to pet him as a greeting. Jeyne Stark née Westerling followed her husband down the icy steps of their coach, her gloved hand tightly clasped in his own. She was a small thing to behold, with chestnut curls that were barely contained in the simple chignon she wore and a slender stature that was little more womanly than Arya’s.

Her face did not do well to hide her emotions, but a reassuring smile on Jon’s part eased some of the anxiety that lingered in her brown eyes. The uncertainty that her body language spoke was quickly observed by Sansa, who stepped forward and spoke to welcome the newlywed couple.

“Welcome back home, Lord Winterfell. And our most sincere welcome, Lady Winterfell.” she said, her lips pressed together in a prim smile when she curtsied.

Before Jeyne could curtsey back and respond, Robb engulfed his sister in a tight embrace, “None of that formal tosh, Sansa! Now give your favourite big brother a good hug!” Arya and the two boys abandoned their previous conduct and launched themselves between the two eldest Stark children, erupting in peals of laughter when Robb pretended to deny them their fair share of hugs.

Jon took to the Marchioness’ side, greeting her with a deep bow and a kiss to her knuckles.

“Captain Snow, it’s been far too long since we were last in each other’s company.” the relief in her tone did not go unnoticed by the young man.

A great deal of time had passed since he was last addressed as such. It had never been the name that he wished to have, but to suddenly hear it after being called a dragon for so long made the man feel a little more himself than he did before. That was the sort of power his siblings had over him—some more than others—and Jeyne was his sister as well now.

With a look of appreciation directed at the woman, Jon allowed her to loop her arm around his, “Aye, My Lady. Though I imagine you will wish you saw less of me once you are properly settled in the castle.”

As expected, Rickon broke from the Stark siblings’ embrace and rushed towards Jon and Jeyne, his blue eyes staring up at the woman who looked down at him with a kind smile, “Arya said you would look ugly like a wicked stepmother, but you're not ugly at all!” he exclaimed, his mouth set in an impish grin.

“Rickon!” screamed Arya, who moved behind him to cup her palm over his face.

Sansa followed in suit, taking her new sister’s free hand and holding it between her slender gloved ones, “I apologise, Rickon tends to take things to heart when Arya teases him, a habit of theirs that I’m afraid we’ve been trying to correct for much longer than we had expected.”

Goodnatured like Jon remembered, Jeyne shook her head and smiled when she removed her arm from his person to hold Sansa’s hand as well, “You needn’t worry about such things. It is good to see that Robb’s siblings value humour just as much as he does.”

Robb beamed from the sidelines, finally greeting Jon with a good hug and pat on the back.

“Always a pleasure, Snow.” he said, the smirk of his slowly shifted into a grimace, a look that he imagined they had both been sharing far too often when in one another’s company.

With the Marquis back in Winterfell, there was much that had to be discussed regarding what their next course of action was, and whether or not the eldest daughter of Eddard Stark would give her support to their cause.

The two men hung back as their Lady sister led everyone into the country house, arm looped together with Jeyne’s, who was pleasantly chatting with Bran about how she looked forward to getting to know them all. It was one among the many sweet sights that could not be fully appreciated, not when the truth behind the Stark family’s situation hung heavily above their heads. Jon watched, hoping to imprint the image forever in his mind, no matter if it was an image of fleeting happiness.

“I assume that Sansa did not speak?”

Caught unawares by his brother, Jon tore his eyes from their family to meet the man’s blue stare. Had his gaze lingered for too long?

“I—No. I mean, she did speak. I intended to write to you when she did, but by then you had already written to her regarding your return home.”

To hear the words coming from his own mouth came as a surprise to even him, and he flushed ever so slightly if only to keep pride from swelling in his chest. Yes, the bastard boy had finally succeeded in befriending the half-sibling who was far too superior and proper to give him the time of the day. But Jon was no longer a bastard, and his sister was not the spoiled child she used to be. Robb clamped his gloved hand over Jon’s arm, between them was a unspoken agreement that they would speak of it in private later that day.

The auburn haired man reached beneath his cape and pulled an envelope from the safety of his coat pocket, “He believed you would claim that you never received it had I not been the one to deliver it to you.” his brother whispered, allowing Jon to take the envelope and tuck it into his respective waistcoat.

The Captain nodded, suddenly gripped by fear of what words the letter would contain, “He is right.”

Whatever time that was meant for a private conversation was lost. The rest of the day was devoted to the Jeyne Winterfell’s introduction to the household and estate, with Arya and the boys competing for their eldest brother’s attention as the Lady Sansa Stark took responsibility for his wife. Dinner had been a grand affair, the table set in the most grandiose style and the food steaming hot with such freshness that Jon could not help but think on how his fair sister had outdone herself this time.

“I reckon you planned everything about today didn’t you Sansa? It really is fantastic, I cannot thank you enough for everything.” said Robb, his smile sincere when he reached out to take his sister’s hand and squeeze it.

To his great surprise, the new Marquis had been made to sit on their father’s seat, which—unknown to him—had been occupied by Jon until his return. His wife sat where the Dowager Marchioness once did, with the Captain to her left and the hostess across her to the Marquis’ right. It was a rather off-putting arrangement in the eyes of all but the newlywed couple, who were oblivious to the family’s dynamics since the absence of its head. But there was no shortage of good stories to be shared, as Sansa spurned on questions about Robb’s first meeting with Jeyne, who was eager to indulge her new sister’s earnest attempt at opening the floor for her to speak. Though a naive thought, Jon liked believe that their friendship would be a pleasant one, to say the least.

“I was thinking…With my marriage to Jeyne here and our arrival from Scotland, wouldn’t it be a marvellous idea to throw a ball? ’Tis a great time to celebrate and share the merriment of the season with the people of Winterfell. I imagine that it’s been quite some time since we’ve had a good party. We could have one once Christmastide is over, what do you think?”

The young man had to consciously prevent himself from visibly cringing at the suggestion of his brother, admittedly ill at ease with the idea of an assembly. He was unfortunate enough to have been forced to attend one of the King’s not long before he left for Winterfell. In the eyes of the guests he was a spectacle to behold, the legitimised bastard of Rhaegar Targaryen, the poor and lonely Head of a House that had lost its heirs to illness and scandal. Jon looked nothing like how women might have expected from a dragon; he did not bear the violet eyes and flaxen hair that his deceased half-siblings were born with, and it brought many to question whether the King’s sanity would soon follow in his predecessor’s footsteps to think that a man who bore no resemblance to him was truly of his seed.

Bran was the first to address the question, his brow raised up in a quizzical expression, “Will I be allowed to attend this party?” for all the insecurities that he could have harboured as a cripple, the boy bore no such thing on his broadening shoulders.

“Of course, you’re old enough to. Would be a shame to deprive all the young ladies of your dashing good looks.” the grin that the two Starks shared was one of mischief.

With an attempt to remain polite in the face of Jeyne, Arya kept silent and sent wary glances in Jon’s way. It had been a fortunate thing that the Marquis made his suggestion after the youngest Stark had retired to his quarters for bed, as they were all aware that the wild boy would no doubt throw a tantrum at his inevitable exclusion from the potential ball. Though he was almost certain that Robb was aware of their discomfort, he could not blame his brother for wanting to present his wife to society.

Having finished her main course, Sansa crossed her cutleries together and dabbed her embroidered napkin to her pink lips, slow to form her words. When she set the cloth down to her lap where Jon could not see, her eyes were trained on her brother, kind but detached when they flickered between him and his wife, “I suppose that it is only proper to do so. The people will expect you to introduce yourselves as Lord and Lady Stark…I will see to it that all goes well for the ball. Although Mrs. Mordane recently informed me that the Assembly Room has recently fallen victim to a thunderstorm.”

“Then what of Summerhall House? How about it Jon?”

All eyes fell upon him then, each pair a filled with an emotion that crossed between wonder and confusion. What caught the man off guard had been his two sisters. Where he expected hurt from long-faced Arya he found enthusiasm, and where he expected a pleasant smile from Sansa he found conflict instead. He took note to reprimand Robb for his carelessness later that night, ashamed that his siblings had received such delayed information from the Marquis rather than himself.  
Jon pursed his lips, suddenly avoidant of his red-haired sister’s gaze, “If you have need of it then I am more than willing to make accommodations.” he responded, earning a grateful smile from his brother and new sister.

“Perfect! I suppose that you two will be able coordinate what will be required for the ball. You needn’t be concerned with expenses of course, I shall worry about that myself.” the Captain allowed himself a glance in the Lady’s direction, aware of the displeasure that was perfectly shielded behind her seeming eagerness towards planning the soirée.

Reluctant to speak to his fellow coordinator, he listened to Arya speak instead as she excitedly spoke of visiting Summerhall and seeing the hidden passages that were rumoured to rest below ground. It eased his anxiety only a little to know that someone would be able to enjoy a part of his inheritance, if it could not be he himself who did so.

 

…

 

It had been well past bedtime when she had graced them with her presence, warm waves done in a long braid that pooled loosely over one shoulder, her tall form clad in a thick violet robe and a flower embroidered shawl that hung until her knees. Jon felt her eyes fall upon him, nearly a bright cerulean in contrast with the darkness of the room they occupied. To his relief, there was no anger on her face, only a look of dread from what he assumed she expected would happen now.

Robb stood from his seat, bowing his head slightly to greet the Lady as the Captain followed in suit, “Sansa, please take a seat. I apologise for calling on you at such an hour.”

She made no reply and took her place near to where Jon himself sat, unmoved by her brother’s pleasantries. The two men exchanged a look of reluctance, unsure of how to go about the conversation they had been having prior to their sister’s arrival.

“I know what you have called me here for brother, I would appreciate it if we ended this as soon as possible so that we may each go to bed and get some rest. I doubt your new wife would enjoy spending her first night in Winterfell all alone.” there was a bite to her remark, one that had surely been caught by the Marquis, though he gave no indication of having taken offence.

“I must take leave to my quarters then, I suppose you will want your privacy—”

“No, stay.”

The pause of silence that followed was filled by her wordless pleading, and the memories of her soft cries grew louder than the fire the crackled in the hearth of their deceased father’s library. Jon remained in his seat and turned to look at Robb, their Lord’s eyes narrowed towards the ground as though he had found something interesting lying on the carpet.

“What do you want to know? Jon can’t have kept it from you, otherwise you would have looked for me much sooner.” she asked as she shifted on her seat to settle herself properly.

Robb leant forward to rest his elbows on his knees and clasp his hands together, the darkness of the room drawing shadows on the planes of his face where a light beard began to form, “Do you remember any important details about the men who attacked you? Anything at all. Like a scar or a signet? Did they say anything in particular that might give you an idea of who ordered them to attack you?”

A resigned expression crossed the young woman’s face as her brother spoke, the dark circles beneath her eyes suddenly deeper and the furrow of her red brows formed a small indentation. Jon restrained himself from taking her hand as encouragement, remembering that they were no longer in the abandoned cottage. She seemed strong enough, she was strong enough, and he knew that she would cooperate for as long as she was not shoved into the situation anymore than she already was.

“Yes…I remember a man with a burn on his face. He was the one who stopped them from raping me. But the one who shot father, he had red hair and a beard—”

“You’ve told me this before Sansa—”

“—and he had a small tattoo on his left wrist. I would know, he hit me with that hand. It was a crimson ‘X’.”

The Marquis’ face went white, though Jon could not tell whether it had been out of anger or surprise at the revelation of his sister. He stood up then, pacing around the room as if he was looking for something important in their father’s quarters, “A House. It must be a House or something. It’s perfect. This is perfect. I must apologise to you both now my dear siblings, for if you were under the impression that the ball would only be for our neighbours in North Yorkshire, I must insist that the invitation will extend to all our family’s friends in the North.”

Whatever resignation was written on their fair sister’s face had all but disappeared, and her eyes looked up to stare at Robb accusingly when she left her seat to walk towards her brother. There was no hesitance in her strides, only a simmering rage that Jon was slowly becoming much too familiar with. He often witnessed such from Arya before the young girl unleashed her fury, but in Sansa it was a hundred times more disconcerting.

“You intended this from the start, using your marriage as an excuse to celebrate when you are only concerned with gathering more people to join you on your wild chase! How dare you expect me to help you in pursuing something as selfish—”

While Sansa was often slow to anger, Robb was like Arya in his quick-temper and thoughtlessness. His blue eyes flashed at her words, jaws clenched when he reduced the gap between them, “How dare _I_?”

Jon jumped from his seat as soon as he caught sight of his brother taking hold of the young woman’s wrist, clamping his own hand over Robb’s shoulder to stop him from harming the girl. Though the Marquis surely would not have struck her, his iron grip could do enough damage with his carelessness.

“Robb.” he spoke, watchful in his tone when he addressed his Lord. There was a firmness to his voice as well, for he could not help but be concerned for his sister.

After a tense moment of the two siblings glaring hard at each other’s faces, Robb released Sansa, muttering his apologies for losing his temper when they drew back from one another. The fury in his eyes was replaced with a cold sort of determination, a look that Jon had become reacquainted with when they first learned of the rumours regarding their father’s visit to a whorehouse.

“There is no selfishness in trying to find justice for a man who was wronged, especially if that very man is our father. It would serve you well to remember that, sister. I suspect that the Lannisters are behind everything, or at the least involved in whatever schemes were played on our family.”

Sansa flinched at the mention of her once-tormentors, her hand circling the area where her brother had grabbed her wrist. Jon would later ask her if any bruises had formed, “It was a theft gone wrong. Why else would they look for the diamonds in the carriage?

“Because the diamonds were a _ruse_ , Sansa. They had been planted there, I just know it. Father was never a gambler or a patron to whores, much less a thief. Cersei Lannister is a liar and you know it, she was trying to make you ashamed of our father because she still wished for you to wed her spoiled arse of a son.” he tentatively took a step forward only to be stopped by Jon, who eyed him warily as he stood between the eldest Starks.

By the steel set line of his sister’s lips, Robb exhaled in frustration, his face growing paler when he spoke, “You would put your trust in someone like Petyr Baelish over me then? He’s an even greater liar than Cersei Lannister.”

“He protected me.” she replied, chin raised high in opposition.

Robb laughed then, a soft and tired laugh that told his siblings of the troubles that weighed in his mind, troubles that he could not speak of when their attentions were concerned with justifying a task that they had already set their minds and efforts to.

“Did he really? Tell me then Sansa, if he is so _loyal_ to his friendship with our family, then how is it that you and father were attacked? You were travelling through his estate by the time the carriage was stopped, or did you not know that because you were too busy blubbering over your broken engagement with Joffrey Baratheon?”

No longer able to watch as the two argued, Jon gripped Robb by the collar of his coat and blocked his view of Sansa, who had turned her back to them and made to exit the room, “Stop! We are supposed to be working together and here you are trying to poison each other with hurtful words.”

The Captain lightly shoved his brother away and followed after the young woman out of the Marquis’ study, lightly treading over the hardwood floor so as not to alarm her as she hurried away. He could run and take her into his arms if it meant having her relax into embrace as she did all those days ago in Ingleborough. His hands tingled with anticipation, urging him to take action or speak right then and there.

“Sansa.”

Her walking came to a halt, back illuminated by the dim candles that lined the corridor. She looked back to meet his concerned expression with a tired one on her pale face, lips slightly upturned in an weary smile, “Goodnight Jon.”

It would be the closest she came to a proper thank you, he was glad to see no hurt lingering in her eyes when she looked at him.

Jon could only nod in return and retire to his quarters before a strange sense of longing overtook him.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *the Gold - basically this is the bullseye  
> *Summerhall - in asoiaf this was a vacation palace for the Targaryen family. If it was unclear, Jon has inherited it as a legitimised son of Rhaegar Targaryen
> 
> I love Robb, I do hope I did justice to his character in this chapter! The next chapter will be more generous with Jon x Sansa moments and explain what happened to the Rhaegar's family.


End file.
